


Run With Your Mind

by larryandgaystuff (cnd8544)



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: AU, Angst, Explicit Sexual Content, Fluff, M/M, Pining, Smut, They're both lost, as my best friend once said i'm a soft human and no one should expect anything less from me, bebe's in this because i love her wow, brief homophobic material in the beginning but it's not a big thing throughout, harry's a runaway, i'm gonna go ahead and call this the soft stripper fic, i'm shit at tagging i'm so sorry, louis' a stripper, loved up ziam, sassy bartender niall
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-30
Updated: 2018-04-30
Packaged: 2019-04-30 07:31:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 22,323
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14491920
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cnd8544/pseuds/larryandgaystuff
Summary: Harry has lost everything. After coming out and being kicked out of his home, he lets the soothing monotony of the moonlit interstate guide him away from all that he’s ever known. When he stops in an unfamiliar paper town however many miles away from his own blue neighborhood, he finds a night of solace in a strangely intimate establishment dedicated to pleasure.The last dancer of the night captivates him, golden skin and mysterious eyes finding Harry’s across the club. When the stranger, with help from friends, finally catches him, offering a warm touch and a place to stay, Harry accepts. He’s thankful for the kindness, of Louis, the dancer with a voice like pink velvet and blue eyes that shine brighter than the flickering neon all around.And when he lets himself be led, by gentle hands and a soft gaze, upstairs to a small apartment above a strip club and overlooking a street he doesn’t recognize, it feels like the beginning of a new life. One filled with laughter, kittens, stripper boyfriends and femme fatales, grilled cheese sandwiches, and listening to a boy sing in the shower as he shrugs off his persona only for Harry to see, knowing with absolute certainty it’s all going to break his heart.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [haloeverlasting](https://archiveofourown.org/users/haloeverlasting/gifts).



> I've been aching to write this story for such a long time, and it's finally here! I hope you all enjoy it, and that it makes you feel something beautiful.
> 
> This is dedicated to my dear friend [ Brittany](https://archiveofourown.org/users/haloeverlasting/pseuds/haloeverlasting/works). Thank you for being such a pure ray of sunshine in this often dreary world. You deserve every happiness, my darling. I hope this makes you smile. <3
> 
> Massive thanks to my amazing betas and cheerleaders, [Day](https://archiveofourown.org/users/harrystanslouis/pseuds/harrystanslouis/works) and [Shannon](http://archiveofourown.org/users/secretswekeepxx/pseuds/secretswekeepxx/works). You two keep me going, both in my writing and every day. I love you! Pat yourselves on the back; we did it!
> 
> And to you, my lovely readers - thank you so much for taking the time to read this little fantasy. It means more than you know. I hope you love it!

_ This can’t be happening. This can’t be real. _

No matter how many times Harry thinks it, says the words out loud, salty tears sneaking into his mouth, nothing changes except the mile markers on the interstate taking him farther and farther from home, dotting his journey away from everything and everyone he’s ever known.

Maybe he shouldn’t have been surprised when his mother started to cry or his father stood up to tower over him, puffing out his chest. Maybe it shouldn’t have come as a shock when he found his belongings thrown out of his room to cover the staircase like a Jackson Pollock painting. Maybe he should have expected to be forced to gather his things and leave while being barked at, his father red with anger, his mother in a state of panic.

The backseat of his car is filled with duffel bags of clothes, his favorite pillow and the quilt his grandmother gave him as a child, his laptop and a worn-out, overread copy of  _ Love is a Dog from Hell _ that happened to be resting on his nightstand. A backpack full of snacks his mother hurled at him as he tumbled out the front door and his beloved teddy bear sit in the passenger’s seat. The road is open, a blank canvas for the moonlight on this fittingly chilly night.

_ I’m gay. _

He hears his own declaration over and over in his mind as he drives, more distorted with each repetition. He hadn’t even been allowed to say more, to explain, to even try to make them understand. Those two words were enough to ruin the illusion of everything he thought he had. Family. Home. Love. It’s all gone. It was gone the moment he gathered the audacious bravery to be honest.

He drives until he stops recognizing rest stops, until the green and blue signs littering the road’s shoulder boast names of towns he’s never heard of. He slows his speed and flicks on his blinker, pulling off at the first exit that isn’t all fuel stations and fast-food drive-throughs and blinding white lights.

He enters a town not much different than his own, at least at first glance. Maybe most places are exactly the same. High schools busy with kids who don’t know themselves and teachers who don’t care, blue neighborhoods made of cookie-cutter houses and awkward roundabouts, banks and cemeteries and mom-and-pop restaurants with ketchup bottles that have to be assaulted before they give anything up.

He’s just beginning to believe his grim musings when, from the opposite side of the empty street, a brightly-lit neon sign captures his attention.  _ Honey, _ it reads in a brilliant hot pink. The building it advertises is a dark, potentially dangerous place, but there’s something to be said about leaving one’s entire life behind. It sure takes fear out of the equation. The warm, electric hues call him back as he passes what he can only assume must be an establishment meant for the night.

He turns around at the next light, only taking a few quiet moments to wipe away the dried tear tracks and take a swig of warm water from the bottle that hasn’t left his cupholder in over a week. He gives himself some halfass attempt at encouragement, trying to convince himself that this isn’t the dumbest idea he’s ever had. He doesn’t know what awaits him inside, but it might just be something that could make him feel alive. It would be worth the risk.

Upon approaching the door, a man with long, straight hair darker than the night sky eyes him suspiciously and asks for identification. Harry offers the surprisingly small bouncer his ID, and a moment later, he nods, opening the door. The world inside is small but spacious, dimly lit with neon all around and lamps illuminating a bar. A stage stretches out into the center of the room, announcing this place for what it is. A few older men sit scattered around the establishment, lost in half-downed cocktails and the young, male dancer currently wrapping himself around a pole where they can’t touch him.

No one seems to notice him, which he finds himself thankful for, so he pushes the uneasiness aside and finds a table at the back of the room. He watches as the dancer moves effortlessly, dark silk dripping from his body like hot ink. Harry is close enough to see a smirk playing on his lips as he abandons the shiny metal pole to run his hands over his skin, removing the clothes to leave only a pair of tight, black briefs. His soundtrack of choice is The Weeknd. The music sounding throughout the room is just loud enough without being distracting, a heavy base accompanied by a melodic voice, a song about desire.

Harry’s eyes dart over to the bar to find another man busy with a cocktail shaker, his golden hair reflecting the light of the lamps surrounding him. Harry isn’t sure sure what causes him to get out of his chair, to saunter over to the bar like he won’t be turned down or even escorted out of the club for daring to ask for a drink despite being only barely eighteen. But evidently he’s full of courage tonight.

“Dirty martini, please,” he murmurs with as much confidence as he can muster, ordering the only drink he’s ever tasted. It’d been a treat when his mom had let him sneak a sip on vacation last summer. He didn’t even really like it, but it seems appropriate now. He’s an adult, whether he likes it or not, and what’s more mature than a drink that tastes like it could kill?

The bartender looks up from the glass he’s drying with an overused towel, staring for too long without saying a word. Harry’s heart beats too loudly in his chest as he anticipates his consequences. But then the man reaches his hand over the bar, allowing Harry to shake it, and says, “I’m Niall. I don’t serve creeps, so here’s your chance to prove yourself an honorable man in a strip club.”

Harry laughs nervously, caught off-guard by the strange introduction. “I’m Harry.” Niall nods, encouraging him to continue as he gets to work on a new glass. “I’ve, uh...I've never been to a club, actually. First time.” He decides in the moment when Niall meets his gaze again, some form of genuineness in them, to be honest. “I needed a place where I could be real.”

Something changes then on Niall’s face, just a flicker of understanding visible. He puts on a soft smile and nods, stepping over to the lineup of liquors stacked neatly on the mirrored bar behind him. “Extra dirty?” he asks, preparing the drink.

Harry can’t help matching his smile, thankful that even if this night goes south somehow, he’ll have had a drink and found simple kindness in a stranger who may understand how it hurts. “Sure,” he says, taking the fragile martini glass by the skinny stem when Niall has finished and raising it to his lips.

The alcohol burns his throat, but the heat is soothing, a liquid balm to numb the pain of the past few hours, the last few years. He fishes for his wallet in his jacket pocket, but Niall says, before he can pay for his illegal drink, “First one’s on the house.”

Harry nods his thanks and allows Niall to get back to his duties, meandering back to his table by the exit. The dancer who introduced Harry to this experience has concluded his performance, and a woman is now on stage. She’s beautiful, petite yet curvy, creamy skin painted with glittering gold to look like vines. Her figure is draped in a tight dress, deep red and flowing to the floor. She holds a microphone stand like the dancer had held the pole, like a lifeline. Her platinum blond hair is done up like she’s some mysterious reincarnation of Marilyn Monroe, full lips painted red to match her dress.

She croons into the microphone, a sad song of unrequited love, voice smoky and feminine. When Harry first saw her floating across the stage, she seemed out of place. This is clearly a strip club targeted at queer men. But hearing the lady in red sing, seeing her cling to the stand, watching as the men around the room silently sweep fingertips across their wet eyes, he understands. He doesn’t have any experiences to support his theory, but somehow he knows this club is different. It’s special.

“How are my lovely gentlemen tonight?” she purrs, her voice carrying over the quiet room. She gestures toward a man seated near the stage with a “hi, baby.” After acknowledging some more familiar faces, she hums a few notes of a song Harry can’t place. Then, “For any newcomers, welcome to  _ Honey. _ I’m Bebe. Thank you for coming. It’s always lovely to meet such charming boys.”

Harry feels the heat of embarrassment on his cheeks when their eyes meet across the distance, but he doesn’t have to squirm under her gaze for more than a moment before she returns to her music, another slow, sexy call for love.

Harry lets one last refreshing drop of martini slide down his throat just as Bebe says goodnight and disappears like a fever dream behind the velvet curtains. He thinks he might like another round, but Bartender Niall has been glancing at him all night for whatever unknown reason, and on top of that discomfort, he’s decidedly too broke to be spending the little money he has on top-shelf liquor.

He tells himself it’s time to leave, time to let this place go. But he’s stopped in his tracks before his hand even touches the door. An opening beat that Harry immediately recognizes as Arctic Monkeys’  _ I Wanna Be Yours _ makes him turn around with a need to know who would climb a pole to one of his favorite songs.

The air leaves his lungs as his eyes settle on a young, golden god taking the stage, wavy, brown fringe covering his eyes, keeping them hidden. A secret amongst the growing vulnerability as he removes his clothes, his defenses. Harry might actually turn to dust. He understands that line now.

The man coils his lithe limbs around the pole like it was made for him, like it’s an extension of his being. The music beats hard in Harry’s chest, a thrill sparking over every nerve as he watches, transfixed. He can’t keep up, and before he’s registered all of his moves, he’s suddenly staring at his nearly naked body, bare save for a pair of golden briefs to match his shimmering skin.

He only realizes he hasn’t moved an inch, has been gazing at the man dancing on stage as if it’s all for him, when his stare is met with fierce accuracy. The dancer doesn’t flinch, keeping his eyes locked on Harry for the rest of his performance, draining the life out of Harry’s body. Or maybe giving him more.

Harry is hot, can feel the nervous sweat beading across his back, his hands growing clammy in their fists. His throat is dry, the martini’s effects long gone. The room is spinning, moving faster with each heavy drop of the beat, every trip the dancer makes around the pole. He makes the metal look warm.

The music stops and Harry can just make out the sound of light applause over the static rushing through his brain, the white noise in his ears. The man is breathing heavily, his chest moving strongly enough for Harry to see it from afar, but his eyes haven’t wandered. He takes a step forward, a peculiar look on his angelic features, and the spell breaks. Harry needs to snap out of his trance and get the hell out of there.

He stumbles out the door, met with a confused expression from the bouncer and a rush of cold, midnight wind. It’s sobering, and he knows he should be thankful for the relief. But it’s unwelcome, the sudden freedom, the ability to breathe. The awful fact of what just transpired, what he felt in his heart, throughout his body, confusing and painful and so unfamiliar, hangs in the air, taunting him as he falls into his car and throws it in drive.

Oxygen fills his lungs too easily now, cold air blowing in through his cracked window. It feels wrong.

He didn’t mind the drowning.

~~~

Morning comes, the sun intrusive and too bright as it shines through smudged car windows. Harry opens his eyes slowly, neck already sore from sleeping in such an awkward position.

The events of the night before flash in his mind like the saddest, most confusing movie ever made. The truth of it is so clear in the unforgiving light of morning. He’d left before what he’d felt could become any more real. He’d thought he wanted to feel something, anything. He isn’t so sure now.

He’d wanted to drive farther away from the club, to leave it behind, so far he couldn’t find his way back to the dream if he tried, but he didn’t make it very far at all. He sits in his car only a few miles down the road, parked in the lot of a small town grocery store. It’s early still, but the lot is already filling up with early bird customers. He can’t stay here, couldn't take the embarrassment of being discovered as some pathetic, lost boy sleeping in his car in a nameless town.

He rifles through one of his duffles and gathers a new set of clothes, rushing inside the store for just long enough to change in a surprisingly clean bathroom stall. He waits until the coast is clear before hastily brushing his teeth and splashing cold water on his face. And then he leaves, as quickly as he came, a ghost on the run.

He drives toward what must be the center of town, an old road littered with cafés and strange storefronts, their window displays seemingly unchanged for years, dust visible when he parks and proceeds on foot, peering inside.

He treats himself to a hot meal, something more than the chip bags and apples his mother tossed at him in the backpack now sitting in his car, finding a small diner, designed to appear out of the 1950s or maybe just never updated. After a modest breakfast of toast and eggs, he spends the rest of the morning and the early afternoon exploring, discovering that he may not be so opposed to this unfamiliar town after all. It’s not entirely foreign, close enough to what home looks like, but without the pain, without the memories.

It isn’t long before he finds himself approaching a school, a series of boring, brick buildings that house those students and those teachers who exist everywhere, live in every town like this. He wanders the path just off the school grounds, not wishing to create a disturbance or appear suspicious. His thoughts sway with every sweep of wind, bump along the dirt path like the pieces of gravel thrown from the nearby road being kicked by his feet as he observes a place that doesn’t belong to him, fantasizes about its inhabitants like he has any right. It never takes long for his mind to race back to the night before, to the neon-lit club and the kind bartender and the dancer who set his heart on fire.

It isn’t enough to think of it, to stay in the memory. He knows he should move on from here, but the thought of leaving is more frightening than that of staying, of going back to that dark room where he felt scared but free. The sun sets on his day of idle exploration and a chill picks up in the air, and he only has to ponder the possible consequences for a moment, staring at himself in the mirror above his steering wheel until he no longer recognizes himself, to know any risk is worth seeing him again, being in that space again, feeling it again, whatever it was.

He can’t be a ghost forever. He has to go on living, even if this new life is unrecognizable.

~~~

Harry returns from where he came, unsure whether he’s happy that the parking lot is crowded tonight. He hadn’t spared a thought for it being a weekend night. Of course the only strip club, what’s probably the only gay-friendly establishment, in this paper town is packed full of strangers on a night like tonight.

He hands the same bouncer from last night his ID and takes his same seat in the back, one of only a few free tables with most patrons gathered around the front, closer to the stage. His eyes seek out the bar nestled against one of the long, brick walls to find Niall pouring drinks just as he had before. There are men crowded around him tonight, and he’s got a wide, sparkling smile on his face as he chats with them amiably, shaking cocktails, arms bare and toned in his loose tank. With his tanned skin and blonde hair and tank top brighter than the neon sign above the stage, he looks straight out of a California dream, and the men are eating it up.

Harry doesn’t want to risk asking for a drink tonight, isn’t sure how Niall would react with so many people around. He wishes it wasn’t so crowded, though. He’d really enjoyed talking with him last night, even so briefly. He’s arrived earlier tonight, and the show hasn’t really started quite yet. He twists a discarded straw paper between his fingertips, trying to keep himself calm as he waits, feeling so ridiculously out of place.

Before he can work himself up to the point of leaving, Rihanna’s unmistakable voice pours at a deafening volume through the speakers placed strategically around the room. Lights suddenly illuminate the stage, the cold, silver pole standing solid, waiting to be touched. A man walks out onto the stage with a level of confidence Harry’s never felt in his life. He’s so masculine, all muscles and dark, taunting features. But just as he gets to the center of the space, he tears off his shirt, ripping it in half, and smiles the brightest, happiest smile. Harry has to wonder if he tears a new shirt every night when the audience roars in appreciation, begging for more.

The juxtaposition between the dancer’s burliness and his choice of music is amusing, but it makes sense. He runs around the stage, teasing the pole only to abandon it within seconds to hump the air and experiment with fancy footwork, dancing like he’s just having fun. The crowd loves it, loves him, and Harry finds himself smiling, watching joy and excitement and happiness unfold before him in this dark, strange, wonderful place.

The dancer exits stage left when he’s successfully removed every piece of clothing painted onto his body and the music has ended. He receives a standing ovation, the general vibe of the club so very different from the last time Harry was here. Then, a heavy, hip-hop beat takes his place, and the first dancer Harry ever laid eyes on is back on stage, wrapping himself around the pole to the melody of a song Harry doesn’t know and desperate exclamations from his audience.

It’s odd, but it all seems so familiar already, so comforting. Harry doesn’t know the name, or even the stage name, of anyone but the bartender and the only woman he’s seen here. But he feels like he knows the man on stage. A strange feeling like pride spreads in his chest watching him for the second time, happy to support him, to see someone experience such exhilaration.

He lets his mind wander, wondering if Bebe will perform tonight, which Hollywood icon she’ll project with her bright, babydoll eyes. He remembers the kindness in her smile, the intelligence in the careful sway of her hips, the passion in her voice. He’d like to know someone like her.

She never takes the stage, perhaps only performing for smaller, more intimate crowds throughout the week. But Harry finds he isn’t one to wallow when, after a handful of dancers have graced the stage and the show is close to its finale, he finally, finally is gifted with the man for whom he came back here. The dancer with soft fringe and lean muscles and golden skin walks with purpose toward the pole as the first few notes of  _ Back to Black _ drifts into Harry’s distracted consciousness. Harry can just barely see a small smirk playing on the man’s lips as he strains his eyes, wishing for the courage to move closer, for the chance, the right to reach out and touch. His fingertips tingle against the tabletop imagining the forbidden caress of a soft, chiseled cheek.

The man flings himself around the pole, warming the metal like only he could. He moves with anger, with passion, telling a story with his body, bringing to life a song of heartbreak. His skin shimmers as he loses his clothes and slides down the pole so slowly Harry burns with anticipation.

It seems every dancer here has perfected a personal style. And the man currently in the eyes of everyone in the room knows exactly what he’s doing. The pained artist, the jilted lover, the one who refuses to be a plaything. He’s everything these men longing for him can’t have. He dances with purpose, weaving tales of heartache and burning desire with every flick of his delicate wrists, every measured twist of his hips as he climbs the pole. He could probably destroy the world with a perfectly-timed blink of his half-hidden eyes if he wished to do so. He’s certainly ruined Harry, and the man has only ever looked at him from across a dark, anonymous room.

They don’t lock eyes this time, and something aches in Harry’s chest. It feels like loss, like a missed opportunity. He feels foolish for hoping, for any certainty he may have had that he’d be noticed by someone so ethereal, so far away.

The audience begins to stir when the show concludes, and Harry stands shakily, intent to rush out the door before he’s swallowed by a stampede. As he takes one final look around the room, knowing in his heart that this can’t go on, that it’s really over now, he catches a glimpse of a blonde bartender waving him over. And well, he should at least say goodbye. Thank him, maybe, for making this all a little easier.

He soldiers over to the bar where Niall slides a glass of water in front of him. “Hang out for a minute, okay?” he says discreetly, holding his gaze until Harry nods, confused but obedient.

Niall moves on, cleaning his station and various glassware, bidding cheerful farewells to familiar faces. And Harry waits, unsure what for, but thankful for the excuse to stay even a little longer.

Until a high, glittering voice comes from behind, a soft, “Hi, love.” Until Harry spins around on his barstool and is met with the most beautiful sight he could have ever wished for. Striking blue eyes, deep ocean waves with flecks of sunlight reflected on the waters, set above sharp cheekbones. Thin, pink lips turned up in the gentlest of smiles, almost cautious. He’s so close, close enough that Harry’s fingertips prickle with the need to touch like he’d dreamed of doing in another, better life.

“Hi,” Harry breathes, too enchanted, too fucking terrified to feel any embarrassment over the affected quality of his voice.

The man’s smile grows, sharp, white teeth glinting in the lamplight, too soft to bite. His eyes could burn down the room. “I’m Louis,” he says, extending a hand.

Harry glances down, heart in his throat, and can’t help but admire the shimmer of his skin, rosy from exertion, sweat drying in a sheen. He allows himself the prize of touch, reaching out to shake his hand, nerves cracking and blood warming when their palms slide together.

Before Harry can find his next words, the man - Louis - takes his hand back and crosses his arms over his still gloriously naked chest. “Enjoy the show?” he asks. He seems genuine, like he really wants to know. It’s not a judgment.

Harry nods dumbly, words lost on his tongue trapped behind his teeth.

Louis nods back and licks his lips. “Do you have a name, sweetheart?”

Harry feels the blush hit his cheeks hard, unsure whether the heat is from humiliation or overwhelming want. “Harry,” he provides breathily. “My name is Harry.”

“A lovely name for a lovely boy,” Louis says calmly, like he isn’t tearing Harry’s world apart.

Harry might be close to tears, can feel hot static building behind his ears. He doesn’t register the wetness on his cheeks, doesn’t realize he really has started crying until Louis’ thumb wipes the tears away, his touch electric but soothing.

“I’m sorry,” Harry hears himself murmur, sniffling and wiping frantically at his damp eyes.

Louis catches his wrists, pulling his hands from his face, and looks at him with such kindness, such openness, that Harry’s eyes well up with fresh tears, but he doesn’t wipe them away this time. He doesn’t know what the hell is wrong with him, why on Earth he should be crying right now. But he can’t care past the blue gaze directed at him, shining beautifully in the low light. He lets himself feel, and Louis stands with him, only letting his wrists go when his eyes have stopped raining tears.

“Can I ask you something, darling?” Louis asks, making Harry’s head spin with his third pet name of the night. Harry nods unsteadily, not sure he means it. Louis watches him for a moment, figuring him out, and Harry doesn’t try to stop him. Then, “Why are you here?”

Harry exhales shakily, submitting. “What do you mean?”

Louis quirks an eyebrow, letting Harry know he can’t be fooled. “I’ve been doing this for long enough to know most people have a reason for finding this place. It’s the same reason why they stay until I lock the doors and why they’re always back the next week. What’s your reason, Harry?”

Louis is pushing him for an answer, that much is obvious. But there is no cruel intention, just genuine curiosity and maybe a touch of concern. And Harry isn’t sure what possesses him when he tells him everything. Louis listens with a soft expression on his pretty features, and underneath the surface of his storytelling, Harry is in shock over how close Louis is now, only minutes ago a floating, mysterious dream a crowd away. He pinches his leg to make sure he’s not lost his damn mind.

Louis wasn’t even Louis less than an hour ago. He was the nameless dancer Harry loved before he knew the color of his eyes. And now Harry is telling him the truth of how he got here, how he found him, and it shouldn’t be this easy. It shouldn’t feel so simple, so inevitable, telling a stranger, a stripper much less, about his worst nightmare come to life. But it’s the easiest thing he’s ever done.

Shame still prickles under his skin when he remembers he hasn’t showered in too long, realizes it must be so evident that he’s sleeping in his car in empty parking lots. A pang of regret rips through him when Louis walks away without another word after Harry’s confession. He watches Louis leave, confused when he approaches Niall sweeping glitter and confetti off the stage. They speak to one another too quietly for Harry to hear, and he’s almost convinced himself that he’s been dismissed and he should leave when Louis turns around and walks back toward him, seemingly unaware of the fact that he’s handling all of this while still clad in barely-there, gold, glittery, spandex shorts. There’s something so  _ endearing _ about it, Harry feels a smile spreading on his lips as Louis comes closer, despite it all.

“I live in the apartment upstairs,” Louis says, without preamble. “I don’t mean to make you feel pressured or uncomfortable or anything, but I figured it might be best to be direct. If you’d like to stay with me, you’re welcome to. I’m under no illusion, I’m sure you must think it strange to have a stripper invite you into his home, but I promise my intentions are virtuous. If you’d like to take a shower and sleep on my couch, I’d be happy to have you. I’m a neat freak, and I have way too many fluffy blankets for someone who lives alone.”

Harry’s heart blossoms with relief, with gratefulness for the man before him. He’s exhausted, and while he’s still trying to catch up, can’t really believe this is happening at all, the stress and the hurt of the past two days weigh down on him, suddenly so heavy, and he wants to accept. “Are you sure?” he asks, exhaling, letting his shoulders relax for the first time in days. “I mean...you don’t know me. It’s a very generous offer, but-”

“Harry,” Louis interrupts. “You need help. And I’m offering it. Take it.” He reaches for Harry’s hand and pulls him up off his stool, guiding him toward the door after grabbing a hoodie that was hidden behind the bar and slipping it over his head. Harry follows him outside and up a set of creaky metal stairs, into a small apartment overlooking the street he’s come to know so well.

The door closes behind them, and Louis leaves the room, walking deeper into his apartment. The unmistakable sound of running water interrupts the silence, and Louis is back moments later with a damp hand and two soft blankets.

Harry lets Louis show him to his bathroom and gladly takes the spare sweats he offers as well as an old, threadbare t-shirt. It’s clean and it smells of lavender-infused detergent, and Harry is so, so thankful.

He showers, cleaning himself thoroughly, enjoying the warmth for as long as possible without running the risk of using up all of the hot water. When he’s dried his curls enough to avoid soaking his borrowed pillow, he lies down on his temporary bed and listens as Louis moves soundlessly through the apartment and takes his turn in the shower.

He’s warm and comfortable and safe. And he’s never heard a near-stranger humming in a shower a room away, but he’s glad he has now. It’s a beautiful sound, haunting and intimate and lovely. He falls asleep to the tick of the clock on the opposite wall, a beat for a soft melody sung by the man who, Harry already knows, will probably break his heart.

~~~

Harry wakes to the smell of coffee, turning over stiffly to find Louis moving gracefully around his small kitchen. When he sees that Harry is awake, he pads over to the couch, sleep-soft and barefoot, and offers him a steaming mug. “Coffee? Didn’t know how you take it, so it’s black. I have milk and sugar if you’d like.”

Harry sits up and stretches his limbs before taking the mug and letting it warm his hands. “It’s perfect,” he says, voice cracking from disuse. “Thank you.”

Louis nods and sits gingerly in the oversized chair facing him. “Sleep well?” he asks, sipping his coffee.

“Yeah,” Harry replies, heart beating too loudly in the quiet stillness of dawn, overwhelmed and still trying to wake up. “I don’t know how to thank you.”

“No need,” he says, a soft smile on his lips. “But if you’d like to talk, I’d like to listen.”

Harry blushes, taking another sip of his coffee before resting the mug on the table between them. “I’m sure you’ve got things to do. I can get out of your hair.” He stands, back cracking on his way up. “Thank you, um...for the coffee. And the shower. I’ll grab some clothes from my car, so I can give these back to you,” he gestures down at his borrowed sweats. “Just give me a minute.”

He reaches for his keys, dropped unceremoniously onto the table when he’d collapsed on the couch mere hours ago. Louis leans forward, holding his coffee a careful distance from his body, and covers Harry’s shaking hand with his own. “You can stay,” he says, quietly, gently. He hesitates, but his hand never strays, his warmth more comforting than the that of the coffee. “If you feel safe here, please stay. Not forever, but until you’re okay again.”

Harry breathes unsteadily, stuck mid-air, unsure where to go from here. “You don’t have to do this,” he says, silently scolding himself for his half-hearted attempt at denying himself kindness.

“I know,” Louis murmurs, taking his hand away. “I’d like for you to stay if you want to. Please consider it.”

“Why are you helping me?” Harry inquires, sabotaging himself further.

Louis sighs and places his nearly-empty mug on the coffee table beside Harry’s. He looks at Harry with such clarity, his eyes like sea glass in the bright morning light cascading over his form in rays. “What happened to you?” he says, not quite a question. “I’ve been where you are. I know you’re scared and confused and hurt. Someone offered to help me, to be my friend, and he might have saved my life. I just...I understand what you’re going through. And I’d like to help you. Be your friend.”

He looks so serious, brow furrowed, careful breaths. But it doesn’t overtake the soft quality of him in the morning. His hair is messy and his sweater is much too big for him, the sleeves covering his delicate hands to make paws. Harry can’t stop looking at him, breathing an impossible task every time Louis looks back.

He’s perfect on stage, teasing and beautiful and untouchable. He’s so different like this. And he might still be a near-stranger, but Harry feels like the luckiest man in the world to be allowed to see him like this, defenses stripped, after the charade, so real in the daylight. He wonders how many others have seen this, had this feeling.

Harry realizes Louis is staring at him for a reason, that he hasn’t actually responded out loud. He nods, gingerly falling back onto the couch. “I’ll stay,” he says, feeling the words escape his lips like a promise.

“Good,” Louis chirps, standing to collect their mugs and wash them in the sink. When he’s finished, he steps back into the living room, drying his hands on a distressed kitchen towel. “You know,” he says suddenly, “I’ve probably made a huge mistake.”

Before Harry can start to panic, Louis continues, “I mean, I’ve probably just lost my new best customer, letting you peek behind the curtain. Can’t walk around naked everywhere. No one’s sexy in the morning. I’ve shown you how boring I am.”

Some absurd rush of bravery strikes Harry’s heart, and he says, before he can think better of it, “You look beautiful.” Secretly, he wishes for the absurd opportunity to someday see the striking blue of Louis’ eyes the moment he opens them, knowing if anyone can look beautiful upon waking, it’s this man. This soft, kind, complicated stripper with a heart of gold and shorts to match.

Louis’ cheeks turn a delicious pink, a reward for Harry’s courage. He smiles shyly, a hint at yet another side of him, another piece of the puzzle that is Louis. He changes the subject, throwing Harry for a loop when he says, “Today is my day off. So we could hang out if you want. Get to know each other.” His smile turns into a sharper smirk. “I mean, you’ve seen my backside, but I do have a few  _ other _ impressive qualities.”

Harry smiles at him, pleased to discover he might be just a little nervous, too, definitely not thinking about said backside. “I’d like that.”

Louis returns to his chair, and they talk through the morning. Harry has the thought again that this shouldn’t be so easy. But it is. Louis tells him his story; twenty years old, enrolled in the university a town away, studying human sexuality and business. He tells him about Bebe, his dearest friend who co-owns  _ Honey _ with him, the two of them having bought it from the original owner when he retired. Louis had started dancing when his own savior, Steve, the man Harry knows as the silky-haired bouncer, set him up with a part-time gig at the club when he left home at eighteen. Bebe had been a dancer at another establishment, but she never enjoyed it like Louis had from the start. So they got into business together, putting all their savings into revitalizing the club where Louis could dance and Bebe could sing.

He confesses his dream, of making  _ Honey _ a special place, of making stripping about more than just taking off his clothes. He wants to help people, to give them a space to heal, to be honest, to feel alive. He waxes poetry about the meaning behind it all, speaks of his frustration with the stereotypes and the misconception that this type of work, this kind of entertainment, is dirty, somehow, filthy and wrong, when it can be so beautiful, so exhilarating. He shares stories of his early days, the friends he’s made through the experience. He tells him more than Harry could have hoped for, a light shining through him, a genuine happiness.

Harry shares, too. He tells Louis of the dream he’s had for so long of becoming a writer, a real, honest-to-God, published author. He tells him about his original plan to attend university starting in the fall, how he’s scared because he isn’t sure how he’ll accomplish such a feat now. He admits how lost he feels, not sure anymore that that’s even what he wants, that maybe he’d like to take a year or two to discover himself, to learn more about the world. To find people and places and feelings about which he could write.

Louis listens patiently, supportively. When Harry’s said all he has to say on the matter, Louis asks if he ever had a destination when he got in his car and drove, before he ended up here. Harry hadn’t, he’d just needed to be gone. And Louis understands.

They watch reruns of  _ The Office _ and munch on popcorn, laughing at all the same jokes, and when the sun sets outside, the light climbing down the walls around them, Louis helps Harry fetch his things from his car to bring them into his temporary home. Louis giggles, high and joyful, when Harry places his teddy bear atop his pillow before arranging his bags in a neat pile beside the couch, out of the way.

“What?” Harry asks, a blush on his cheeks and a helpless smile on his lips.

“ _ Of course _ you have a rainbow teddy bear,” he says, eyes sparkling. “I don’t know why I’m surprised.”

“His name is Lewis,” Harry says, heart pounding in his throat. “He’s a very good bear.”

Louis slides over to the couch, bringing shivers up Harry’s arm when his hand grazes his own so fleetingly as he reaches for his bear. He wraps his hand around its paw and shakes it gently. “Nice to meet you, Lewis,” he says, soft amusement in his voice. “I see you also enjoy taking your clothes off.”

Harry barks out a laugh, nerves rattling. “He’s a bear!” he exclaims. “He doesn’t need clothes.”

“Ah,” Louis teases, mischief playing in cool blue. “That’s where you’re wrong, Haz.”

Harry’s blood runs hot at the sound of his new name, the softness with which Louis uttered the word. It’s so easy, all of this. So easy, and so, so hard. Hard to look at Louis and not spill his every truth. Hard to listen to his lovely voice and feign casual interest, like it’s not already his favorite thing in the world. Hard to pretend that this doesn’t feel like the realest thing he’s ever known.

He stands in quiet confusion as Louis leaves his space and searches for something in the kitchen drawers. He gasps when he’s found whatever he’d been looking for, and Harry finds out soon enough that it was a fat roll of electrical tape. He waltzes over to Harry, Lewis now nestled in Harry’s arms, and tears off several pieces of the black tape, silently asking permission to revamp his bear’s look. Harry hands him over and watches as Louis places the tape on him strategically, accenting it with a silver metallic marker, until Lewis has been made into the kinkiest teddy bear Harry’s ever seen.

He laughs when Louis hands Lewis back to him, his eyes filling with happy tears as he tries to catch his breath. Louis’ smile is breathtaking, the little crinkles by his eyes that Harry first noticed this morning deeper than ever. “There,” Louis says, punctuating his words with a snap of the marker’s cap, “Fits in around here a little better now, don't you think?”

Harry nods, letting his bondage-inspired teddy bear fall to the couch, and reaches for Louis, pulling him into a tight embrace. Louis hugs him back immediately, fingertips pressing into his sore muscles. They stand in peaceful silence, Harry hoping to convey everything he can’t say though touch.

Louis pulls away first, but it isn’t quick. It isn’t a retreat. His hands remain on Harry’s biceps until they fall at his sides when Harry shifts with nervousness. Harry asks Louis if he’s hungry, offering to make grilled cheese when he nods curiously. Louis happily agrees to his plan, allowing Harry to make him dinner as a thank you.

“This is delicious,” Louis says later, mouth full, melted cheese dripping down his chin. “Sure you don’t want to be a chef?”

Harry laughs, happily embarrassed. “I just like to cook. Don’t think it’d be so fun if it was my job.”

“Well, if you want to have fun and make me the world’s yummiest grilled cheese every day, I wouldn’t be opposed to that,” Louis says, sending a heartstopping wink over his sandwich.

And that moment, that silly, lovely moment, is all it takes for Harry to know he made the right choice by staying. His hands are greasy and he’ll definitely be embarrassed when he wakes up in the morning with a zit on his chin the size of Jupiter, but right now, he couldn’t care less. Because he’s sitting in a warm, safe place, belly full of food, cheeks aching from laughing too much.

He’s with Louis, and it’s all still so new, but it feels perfect. It feels like a new beginning.


	2. Chapter 2

Days go by, some slow and sweet, the two of them sipping tea together in the soft light of morning, watching sitcom reruns and learning everything they can about the other, others more of a hurried haze of navigating this new life, Harry filling out job applications while Louis attends classes and trying to figure out what the hell he’s heading toward. One thing never changes though. Harry is at the  _ Honey _ every night Louis performs, watching in rapture, failing to hide his devotion for his friend who was never really just his friend, at least not in Harry’s mind, in his heart.

He meets the dancer who unknowingly introduced him to this place the first night he wandered in, a lost boy with a broken heart. Zayn quickly became more than a stranger, welcoming Harry into their little family the moment they met. His partner Liam, the man Harry loved as soon as he saw him dancing to girl pop without a care in the world, is a puppy dog both onstage and off, hugging Harry more often in the past month than anyone has in his life. Bebe is like a mother, kind and warm and fiercely protective of her family, of which Harry feels so lucky to be the newest member. Steve is stoic and mostly silent, an observer, but his eyes are gentle and when he does speak, it’s always something worth listening to. And Niall, his only friend on the hardest night of his life, the charming bartender who saw his pain and tried to heal him with kindness, is well...Niall. He’s loud and bright, like sunshine and happiness and a belief that life can be beautiful. And Harry loves him. He loves them all.

He loves Louis the most. And his feelings have only grown as he’s come to know him, the real him. The spark caught fire when Harry had first laid eyes on him at the club, his skin golden, eyes dark, as he’d danced like he knew he was breaking hearts. But knowing Louis is so much more, seeing him sleep-soft in the mornings, listening to him complain about school or, even better, when his voice gets high and scratchy when he’s aced an exam and comes home to celebrate with cheap wine and grilled cheese, watching him shrug off his persona, tired and raw as soon as the door closes behind them after nights at the club.

Tonight, Harry sits at the bar, chatting with Niall because it’s the middle of the week and the club isn’t so busy. Harry likes nights like this, when Bebe enchants everyone with her songs of love and heartache and he can take up Niall’s time and there are fewer strangers between himself and Louis when he finally takes the stage. Zayn and Liam were the first performers of the night, dancing together as they often do, and before the end of the show, while visiting dancers are working the crowd, they sneak out, approaching the bar dressed in disguises consisting of oversized hoodies and sunglasses. How they can see anything in the already dark room is a mystery.

“Hey there, cutie,” Zayn whispers in Harry’s ear before dropping onto the next barstool. “Enjoy the show tonight, love?”

“Both of you were lovely as always,” Harry says shyly, rolling his eyes for good measure as his cheeks redden.

“Best strippers in town,” Liam chirps, grabbing his regular drink from a prepared, exasperated Niall.

“Babe-” Zayn starts.

Liam interrupts, his hands held up in defense. “I know, I know. I’m sorry.” He turns to Harry after soothing his boyfriend with a quick peck. “My amazingly talented lover has decided he’s a dancer, not a stripper.”

“I’m artistic,” Zayn shrugs, smirk on his lips. “What can I say?”

“The stripper and the dancer,” Niall chimes in. “A modern-day fairytale.” Harry can’t help his smile, happy to watch the exchange, Zayn rolling his eyes in mock annoyance. “A gay fairytale with a little glitter and a lot of cock.”

Liam laughs far too loudly, pleasing to Niall but apparently quite bothersome to the patron seated only a couple of tables over. Harry sips at his juice, averting his eyes as the lovebirds before him get lost in each other, lips never parting for long, hands moving to the beat of the music. He can’t watch them together without his mind racing with  _ LouisLouisLouis, _ without inappropriate, impossible wishes making themselves known, without searching Louis out in even the most crowded rooms.

Bebe floats across the stage when the night is close to its end. Harry listens, her voice healing, her beauty timeless. He turns to make a comment to Niall, but he forgets his words as soon as he sees a familiar look in Niall’s eyes. He’s gazing at some faraway dream, much like Harry had the first night he came here, like he has every night since. There’s a fire raging in the cool blue of his eyes, white heat and desire, longing. Harry glances in the direction of his stare, knowing what he’ll find, but unable to keep himself from looking. Bebe is gripping her mic stand, belting out a slow, deep, jazzy melody, red dress glittering like a ruby.

Harry turns back toward Niall and watches as his eyes never stray from her, not until she leaves the stage, leaving behind bright lights and applause to slip behind heavy, velvet curtains. Niall blinks, seemingly snapping himself out of some trance, and notices Harry’s stare. “What?” he asks. But he knows exactly what Harry has seen, his cheeks turning rosy in the dim light of the lamps. He busies himself with dirty glassware, feigning ignorance, and something hurts in Harry’s heart. He knows what it feels like, that flame in Niall’s eyes, the burn of white knuckles and quickfire breathing.

“You should tell her,” Harry says quietly, keeping the secret between the two of them, out of reach of the loved-up idiots making out against Niall’s pristine bartop.

Niall huffs out a laugh, an uncomfortable, aching thing. “Yeah,” he says, just loudly enough to be heard over the new music that’s just begun to fill the space. “Guess so.”

Harry wants to reach out to him, to comfort him, because he knows how badly it can hurt, how agonizing it feels to watch the person you want more than anything perform on that stage, never close enough to touch. But then the music picks up, and Harry knows there’s only one dancer here who would climb a pole to an acoustic cover of The Beatles. He spins around slowly, cautiously, trying to avoid a headrush, and finds Louis has decided to do things a little differently tonight. Harry’s heart races at the unfamiliarity of the scene, the knowledge that anything can happen when Louis wants something.

He wanders through the crowd, giving each patron a teasing taste of him, clothes left behind with each meeting, a token of his love. Harry faintly hears Zayn cough beside him, Niall snickering behind him, but nothing could be so important as to take his eyes from Louis’ graceful form, drawing nearer with every passing second, anticipation burning his lungs to ash. Louis strolls slowly across the room, giving the previously annoyed man two tables away a hand run through his thinning hair and an innocent wink as he moves on. He moves like syrup as he sets his sights on Harry, and breathing is suddenly very, very hard.

And suddenly, finally, Louis is closer than he’s ever been. At least like this, as this Louis.  _ I want you, _ he mouths, pushing against Harry for just a moment before pulling away again, trailing a pointed finger down his chest and abdomen, fire catching in his path, his burning skin hidden by his t-shirt. The song goes on, and Louis doesn’t relent.  _ I want you so bad,  _ his lips bleed with the words. He spins around, throwing Harry’s world into orbit once again, sliding his palms down Harry’s legs, bent at the knee. It’s a temporary fix, a fleeting touch, but Louis is back on him in seconds, fingers slipping through his curls, lips hovering against his ear as Harry tries his very best to remain conscious for this.

“I want you so bad, it’s driving me mad, it’s driving me mad,” Louis whispers this time, breathing the words into Harry’s skin, taking Harry’s breath for himself. And then he’s gone, the cool air of the club freezing against his skin, where he’d just been the hottest. He takes Harry’s soul with him as he returns to the stage, blue never leaving green.

It’s the longest dance of Harry’s life, time moving in a blur, Louis the only sharp, glinting thing in focus. When it’s over, he thanks his audience, catching a single rose thrown by a man Harry has now decided he’d like to use for target practice. And just as Harry begins his descent from his seat, testing his own strength after having the lifeforce taken from him by soft hands on his thighs and softer lips against his ear, Niall leans over the bar, eyes dangerously close to Harry’s. “You should tell him,” he says, a devious smirk on his boyish face. “Can’t be that hard, right?”

Harry takes his punishment, knowing he deserves it, and saunters off toward the back of the club, letting himself into the hallway outside of Louis’ dressing room. Always just outside, just out of reach. He waits, receiving a kiss on the cheek and a teasing pat on his ass when Louis finally emerges. He burns silently, taming the flames when they reach too high, tempting him to try, to kiss him, to make it real.

Louis takes him home, just like he does every night. He takes a shower, washing off the sweat and glitter and leaving Harry to touch himself on the couch, to live with a horrible, delicious secret that fills his bones with want, his heart with pain. It never takes long to reach his pleasure, always already halfway there by the time Louis has left his side at the end of the night. And he falls asleep to the sound of Louis singing, his voice muffled by the running water and the distance between them, but still beautiful. Still everything Harry could ever hope to love.

~~~

Harry and Louis spend their free days together, going for drives with no destination, radio loud and windows down, wind blowing through their hair. They have lazy days at home, or what Harry now thinks of as his home, studying and watching TV and being so painfully domestic it makes Harry ache in places he didn’t know he had inside him. And when Harry finds a job at the local animal shelter, Louis visits him every chance he gets.

They play with the puppies and let the kittens out of their cages when the manager takes long lunches. Louis tries to get Harry to warm up to the smaller animals, holding rats and hamsters and ferrets so tenderly, Harry doesn’t really mind them so much. Harry attempts to cure Louis’ hatred of birds, but it’s a lost cause. “But most of them mate for life!” he tries one day. Louis never budges on the issue, but he does smile, and he hugs Harry a little tighter before he leaves that day.

A new kitten comes to the shelter one early afternoon just as Louis stops by for a visit. She doesn’t even get a sign for her cage before he and Harry lock eyes, the tiny darling jumping and rolling around on the floor between them, and they both know she’s going home with them.

They name her Flicker for her fur that glows orange like the edges of a flame. She loves rainy days at home almost as much as Harry does, and it’s always a mystery who she’ll choose to snuggle up to when they go their separate ways to sleep.

All Harry can ever think of is the complication she brings. He can’t imagine leaving her behind when it’s time for him to go. He couldn’t take her from Louis, either. They’ve tangled their lives together like they won’t ever have to give this up.

But Harry sees so clearly what they’re ignoring. Louis isn’t his, and he isn’t Louis’. It may feel that way, in the daylight when they play with their kitten and Louis’ hand wanders a touch too far to rest upon Harry’s own spread on the carpet, in the darkness with Louis’ eyes always finding his across a sea of people. It may feel that way, but it isn’t the truth. And he can’t stay forever.

That knowledge is tested on a Friday afternoon during their regularly-scheduled, weekly trip to the grocery store where Harry has yet to confess he slept his first night in this odd town that has so quickly come to feel like home.

They peruse the aisles, tossing a mix of healthy foods and junk into the basket, and when they stop by the cooler full of cheeses, Louis asks, unassuming, which type of cheddar is best for Harry’s “should-be-world-renowned grilled cheeses.”

The question hangs in the air, unanswered, as Harry’s world collapses around him. Because he realizes he doesn’t know how many more times he’ll be lucky enough to have Louis ask him that, how many more grilled cheeses they’ll share over reruns of  _ The Office _ and Louis’ term papers, trying to keep Flicker from snatching up their abandoned sandwiches when they get too caught up in one another’s eyes to pay attention to her.

Tears forms in his eyes as he struggles to breathe, and he can’t do anything but stare at the back of Louis’ head as he examines blocks of cheese, unaware of Harry’s ridiculous reaction to such an innocent question. He grows desperate for air, heaving and still not taking in the oxygen he needs to stay upright. His heart slams against his ribs at an alarming rate, pulse out of control, beating wildly from his toes to his head, pounding into his brain. He feels the floor fall out from under his feet, and in one dizzying, terrifying moment, everything goes black, silent, empty.

~~~

It’s dark when Harry opens his eyes again. His head is throbbing, clueing him into the fact that he definitely knocked himself out. The events that led to his loss of consciousness flash in his mind, and somehow the images are too bright. He lifts a heavy arm, finding a knot on the back of his head with shaky fingers. He really must have hit the ground hard.

Everything moves in slow motion as he pieces life together again. His vision must have been messed up a bit by his fall because it takes what feels like several minutes for him to realize that the room he’s in really isn’t so dark. The sun has set and let the moon take her place, pale light shining in to illuminate the dream of a man lying beside him, sharing his bed with him. He has no memory of how he got here. He might have died. But if this is Heaven, he’s not so surprised Louis is here with him. And if this is Hell, he’ll gladly burn.

Maybe his hearing was damaged, too, because he’s suddenly aware of Louis murmuring his name, his voice quiet but a little frantic, like he’s tried to get Harry’s attention more than once. Harry opens his mouth to respond, but nothing comes out, his throat dry and bitter from disuse and dehydration. He coughs weakly, prompting Louis to reach behind him and come back with a half-empty bottle of water. Harry sips at it carefully, handing it back to Louis when he’s had enough. Louis places it back on the nightstand Harry can see now, but he’s back in an instant, eyes full of worry as he slips his fingers through Harry’s frizzy curls.

“Fuck, Haz,” he says quietly, his voice so gentle, almost timid, in the darkness. “You scared the shit out of me.”

“M’sorry,” Harry whispers, still not entirely confident his throat can handle much more than that. Suppressing the urge to cry again surely isn’t helping, a rock forming to make swallowing difficult.

“Don’t apologize,” Louis murmurs, inching closer, his cheek against Harry’s, wrapping his arm around Harry’s body, squeezing ever so lightly, like he’s afraid to hurt him further. “Just so relieved you’re okay.”

Harry’s efforts are wasted, a fat, hot tear escaping from his eye only to be wiped away by the soft pads of Louis’ delicate fingers as he asks, “What happened, love?”

Harry cries, sniffling violently, holding his breath to keep from sobbing. Louis holds him, steady and relentless, and Harry never wants it to end, even if he has to cry for the rest of his life to make it so.

When Harry finally calms down enough to speak, he does so honestly. He’s had panic attacks in the past, and he knows that was the catalyst of this disaster.

“I don’t want to leave,” he says after his explanation for his fall, heart rabbiting in his chest, giving Louis the real reason for all of this.

“You don’t have to,” Louis says, eyes locked on Harry’s.

“Maybe not right this second,” Harry says, exhaling in a staccato rhythm, lungs wrecked from exhaustion. “But I can’t stay forever.”

“Why not?” Louis asks, gently, cautiously.

“Louis-”

“I want you to stay,” he says, interrupting with a quiet forcefulness.

A moment passes, a beat, a tired, defeated breath.

“You don’t mean that,” Harry says finally. “I don’t belong here.”

Something fierce flashes in Louis’ eyes, reflecting the moonlight dancing across his skin. “You’re wrong,” he says, voice firm, making it clear that he isn’t going to argue. “You  _ do _ belong here. And I  _ do _ mean it. I want you to stay.”

Harry swallows his fear, his apprehension, his utter disbelief that someone could care so much they’d fight for him. The truth of the matter is Harry has never felt safer than he does in this moment, legs tangled with Louis’ under his duvet, eyes wet with tears that never make it to the pillow before Louis wipes them away with a fleeting, electric touch. He’s never felt more loved, for exactly who he is. No mask, no secrets, no lies.

He hasn’t forgotten why he came here, the pain lying just below the surface. But he knows without it, he never would have had this. He never would have known the joy of being with Louis, the peace that comes with lying in his arms, suffocating so deliriously happily in his warm, honeyed scent.

He misses home, misses his mother’s comforting hugs and his father’s dumb jokes, his dog’s sloppy kisses. He misses his friends and the grocery store he’s gone to his whole life and the park with the old tree where he smoked his first cigarette when he figured out what it was, the feeling that was eating him alive.

But he knows none of those losses could ever compare to the pain of letting Louis go. The thought of leaving this place, Louis disappearing, getting smaller and smaller in his rearview mirror, brings tears anew. He couldn’t do it. He isn’t strong enough.

Before sleep takes him, he remembers what day it is, caught somewhere between shame and overwhelming gratefulness when he realizes Louis chose to stay with him.

“Friday nights are always busy,” he says, feeling so pathetically desperate. “I’m so sorry, Lou.”

“The gang can handle things without me for one night,” Louis says with a smirk. “I guess we’ll know if they burn the place down. We might just fall through the floor.”

Harry breathes out a weak laugh born of fondness and exhaustion. He’s halfway to a dream, the plea leaving his lips before he can think better of them. “Just don’t let me go.”

Sleep takes away the pain, the tired ache of his lungs. But not before Louis presses his lips against Harry’s cheek, his touch lingering, a world-ending sort of thing, and whispers against his skin, setting him afire one more time. “Never.”

~~~

Harry wakes to a dream come true. His eyes are sore and probably horribly swollen from crying and his breath is so bad he can taste it, but his arms are wrapped securely around the most beautiful boy he’s ever known, his skin golden in the new daylight sneaking in. Waking to his nose in Louis’ hair and Louis’ ass snuggled against him, however, doesn’t help Harry to calm the want, the need, that rushes through him in his first second of clean consciousness. He breathes as steadily as his racing heart will let him, silently begging the universe for just one more moment of this, willing his dick to cut it the fuck out, to allow him this frenzied joy without making him leave Louis’ warmth to slip out of bed and take care of the situation while Louis sleeps peacefully without him.

He’s granted his wish, perhaps he’s done something worthy in a past life, semi flagging and heartbeat slowing to a manageable pace. It does pick up again when Louis wakes, gifting Harry the beauty he’s only ever been able to imagine before this morning, the best morning of his life. His eyes are the brightest blue they’ve ever been, diamonds sparkling in the early sunshine pouring in through his half-open curtains. He opens them slowly, blinking away the sleep as the morning invades his senses. He groans quietly, and Harry can’t help the smile that warms Louis’ cheeks in turn when he catches him staring. Harry’s heart lurches with the knowledge that he put the rosiness there, on the sharpest point of his cheekbone, his other smushed against his pillow.

“Good morning, stalker,” Louis whispers, blinking softly, smile never leaving his lips, just a little fuller than usual, puffy from sleep.

Harry’s cheeks grow hot, a matching blush crawling onto his cheeks. They must look ridiculous, but Harry could count on one hand the times in his life he’s been this happy. He wishes someone was watching, even recording them, just so he’d have some kind of proof when this is gone and he’s got nothing but memories on which to rely, by which to remember that this was real somehow. “I’m not a stalker,” Harry huffs, embarrassed and giddy and so painfully aware of how badly he wants this, every single morning, forever.

“You are,” Louis smiles wider, stretching his limbs like their spoiled cat. “But I like it. You can stay.”

It’s a joke, but it pulls Harry back to the night before, back to when Louis had said it so sincerely, almost desperately.  _ I want you to stay. _

Before Harry can start spiraling again, Louis relaxes from his stretch, falling back to the bed, directly on top of Harry, sprawling across him in a sleep-soft heap. For a moment, Harry loses his breath, fearing Louis’ panicked departure, the intimately casual contact surely a mistake. But Louis doesn’t move or even really reposition himself. He lies still where he landed, and his body grows heavier, more restful, his cheek against Harry’s chest, his warmth soaking through Harry’s t-shirt.

Harry wishes he could stay here forever. Not just in this town, but with Louis, trapped under him in his bed, simply looking, touching him and being touched. He doesn’t know what this means, last night and this morning and Louis just... _ always. _ But it feels important. It feels like everything Harry’s ever wanted. It feels like something’s changed. It feels like being with him.

He knows that isn’t the truth, of course. He didn’t hit his head so hard he lost all sense of reality. But he lets himself believe it in the quiet stillness of dawn, with Louis draped over his chest, breathing evenly as he falls right back to sleep, not a care in the world. He allows that hazy kind of late-morning sleep to take him into dreams where he can believe what he wouldn’t  _ dare _ do more than hope for otherwise. He lets himself believe Louis could love him back.


	3. Chapter 3

Late spring turns to summer, the sun warm through the trees, Louis warmer under Harry’s hands when he finds the courage to touch on nights he finds himself wide awake beside Louis’ sleeping form, his breaths visible in slow rolls of his chest. He’s been here too long, and there’s no real reason for it now, other than the thought of leaving being too painful to bear. He stays out of selfishness, but sometimes, in the morning while they eat breakfast before going their separate ways or on nights when Harry’s dreams turn to nightmares, Louis convinces him that he’s not so out of place with a soft caress and caring words. And Harry lets himself believe it.

Life is a vicious, addictive cycle of watching Louis on stage, an untouchable dream, only to go home with him and have that knowledge challenged when, after he’s come as quietly as possible under the heaviness of his blanket and closed his eyes, pretending to be asleep, Louis toes into the living room and leaves the softest, most fleeting of kisses to his forehead before disappearing into his bedroom, once again out of reach.

Louis looks at him differently, has for some time. When he’s on stage, elevated and shining with glitter exaggerated by the floor lights, his eyes always find Harry’s. His gaze is daring.  _ Come and get me, _ it says, playful blue teasing green darkened by desire and the low light of the club. 

But his eyes are never wicked when they’re alone. And Harry can’t help but feel whiplash when Louis turns to tell him goodnight, with eyes a startling light blue, as gentle as a petal on a newly-bloomed forget-me-not, when only moments before, he seemed as desperate as Harry. For something more. For an acknowledgement, some relief that he isn’t the only one who feels the crackle of electricity when their lips accidentally touch in the early morning because they can’t keep themselves from tangling their bodies together on nights when Harry finds his way into Louis’ bed. The ache so deep in places he didn’t know could hurt because they never did until he knew what Louis’ breath tasted like on his waiting lips, until he had to feign sleep when Louis stirred, lest he know Harry had run his tongue over his own flesh to discover the flavor of him in the morning.

There’s a disconnect, and Harry doesn’t know what’s for show and what’s real. He’s in love with two people, both beautiful and kind and brilliant, but one is sharp, shiny, shimmering, while the other is a soft shade of pink against the gold that surrounds him.

Now, Harry lounges on the couch, a bowl of grapes resting on his stomach, moving slowly with the even cadence of his breathing, as he reads the only book he brought with him on this strange journey. Flicker stretches in boredom near his feet, her tiny head whipping around at the sound of keys knocking against the door. Harry’s heart beats a little faster, a smile growing on his face, as he sets his book and his snack on the coffee table, waiting for Louis’ entrance. He had a lovely day at work, and he’s been eager to tell Louis all about it, if only for the amused giggles Harry’s animal tales pull from him, for the way he lets Harry lean against him as they gab about their days, his fingers always finding Harry’s curls before long.

Harry feels his face change shape when Louis, after audibly kicking off his shoes, walks past the threshold and into the room. Louis’ jaw is tense, eyes flicking around the room like he’s looking for something even though Harry is right in front of him. Harry opens his mouth to speak, to ask what could be so clearly wrong, but he can’t get the words out when Louis strides with purpose across the room and turns on the speaker sitting alongside a half-drunk glass of water and a vase filled with white flowers on a small table beside the couch, like it’s in any way an answer for his strange demeanor.

Louis toys with his phone for only a moment before tossing it onto his chair, and a familiar beat begins to play through the room. They’ve listened to the new Kendrick Lamar album countless times since its release, and Harry knows the song before it really starts. Louis is standing in front of him, unmoving but for a subtle shiver Harry only notices because he’s so attuned to everything Louis does, always careful to watch for every detail, to log every movement away in his mind for when he can no longer watch.

As the narrator feels lovely, sippin’ bubbly, Louis takes a step forward, legs between Harry’s, spreading them. Harry’s body burns with confusion, anticipation, want. He’s afraid to look down, afraid that he might turn to ash before Louis puts his hands on him. He hopes beyond reason that he will. The unnerving darkness in Louis’ eyes is almost feral, and Harry doesn’t have a damn clue what the hell is happening right now, but he’s never wanted Louis to touch him more than he does in this moment, to let himself fall, too.

Louis bends, moving closer, and it’s only when his warm breath caresses the shell of Harry’s ear that Harry realizes Louis still hasn’t said a word since he walked in, swallowing all of the oxygen in the room before Harry ever had a chance. Until, “Choreographed a new routine,” he says, voice tight and raspy, vibrating against Harry’s skin. “Thought I’d test it out on you since you love this song.”

Harry can’t do anything but try in vain to breathe, the air so thin between them, electric and hot and terrifying and everything Harry’s wanted since the first night their eyes met across a dark, forbidden room. He loves this song because, as the title implies, it’s about love. But this isn’t love. At least not for Louis. What is it, though, if not love?

His thoughts are a rainstorm inside of his head, deafening and unpredictable, each one splashing and melting into the cracks before the next can take its place. His hands tremble against his thighs, sweat already beading across his back where it’s pushed against the couch, his body led backward by Louis’ invasion.

Louis’ lips gently brush his jawline before he pulls away completely, leaving a cold front in his wake. The beat of the music pounds to match every other beat of Harry’s overworked heart, and Louis encourages it, shrugging off his denim jacket, revealing a loose tank top, a neon peach color that makes his skin look deliciously golden even in the dull light of the shaded apartment. He’d decided on maroon shorts today, and Harry loves them even more now than he did upon noticing them this morning as Louis ran out the door, late as usual. They hug his hips perfectly, the soft material curving around his backside. A quick jolt of panic runs through Harry as he considers the very real possibility that Louis may take them off. He can’t think straight, the whole world a blur, all of the energy in the universe concentrated and hyper-focused on this exchange between the two of them.

Louis pops the button on his shorts, but he doesn’t remove them. His hips swing in time with the music that still somehow plays beside Harry’s ear. He has no way of knowing how much time has passed, how long this has been happening, but maybe Louis has the song on repeat, because it feels like eons have gone by since Louis first looked at him like that upon walking into his space, probably only minutes ago, like he never had before, not  _ here _ , not like this.

He does know that he can’t possibly be handling this shock to his system subtly. Louis has to know that his world is collapsing around him, exploding in technicolor fireworks. And he might, with the ever soft quality of his touch when he comes closer once more, the faint shakiness of his breathing, the brightness that shines through the black of his eyes, a light that could never be extinguished.

Louis slides his knees along the bare skin of Harry’s thighs, the thin material of his own shorts moving with Louis, allowing the meeting of skin on skin. He dips forward, his body swaying into a grinding motion that sets Harry ablaze, his lips finding Harry’s neck, nose huffing out a hot breath over the lobe of his ear. Harry prays, begs for a kiss, for Louis’ lips to move in practiced rhythm, to find his own bitten lips, to bite them himself. But he doesn’t, seemingly content to torture Harry forever with dry lips sliding against his neck with no real aim. Another song replaces the last, giving Harry some concept of time, and he can’t decipher the melody past the static in his brain, but it’s not really about the song anyway. Not anymore. Maybe it never was.

Louis lowers himself again, dragging the coarser material of his shorts against Harry’s cock that’s begun to strain against the confines of his briefs. A quiet whimper escapes his mouth before he can register the pleasure the contact brings, his cheeks burning, eyes stinging as Louis continues to run his lips so softly against his skin, goosebumps where his tongue would land if it slipped from his mouth.

“Harry,” Louis murmurs, the feeling of his name on Louis’ breath sending pinpricks down Harry’s spine. And suddenly, it’s all too much. It’s too much, too heavy and loud and bright. His cock aches under Louis’ teasing touch, and when Louis pulls away from his neck, his ass settling against Harry firmly enough that he might feel his arousal, a bolt of panic rips through him, strong enough that it knocks Louis off of him and propels Harry across the room and to the other side of the locked bathroom door.

He lets his back slide down the cool surface of the door, his ass hitting the hard floor. His cock is still very interested in what was just happening despite his panicked reaction, and his eyes fill with tears at his own cowardice, hot flames of embarrassment licking up his spine. He sits, devastated, angry with himself for ruining everything, for denying himself the very thing he’s been  _ praying _ for.

He doesn’t hear the music still playing on the other side of the door until it stops. The silence is deafening. And then come slow, quiet footsteps and a soft knock at the door.

“Haz?”

Fresh tears spill to his cheeks before he wipes them away furiously and forces himself to stand. There’s pain in Louis’ voice when he says Harry’s name, just loud enough to be heard through the wood separating them. Pain and hesitation, caution and worry. And that’s all Harry needs to hear to pull himself at least somewhat together. Because he can’t bear to hurt Louis. He can’t let his fear make Louis think he doesn’t want him. He’s never wanted anyone more. In whatever way Louis wants to give of himself.

With shaking hands he opens the door, knowing, without a smidge of doubt, that he still looks a mess. The second nothing stands between them, Louis takes a step forward. Harry doesn’t have the strength or the will to move away from him. Louis slowly reaches a hand out, and Harry’s breath catches in his throat as it touches his neck, the lightest graze of fingertips before the warmth of his palm.

Harry swallows loudly, scared and so desperate his vision is fuzzy around the edges, Louis the only sure, clear thing. “Lou,” he whispers, the only word that comes to mind. Louis moves closer, his other hand coming to rest on the other side of Harry’s neck before he moves them both to the nape of his neck, fingers hidden in his hair.

“Tell me to stop,” Louis says, a breathless challenge.

Harry doesn’t want him to stop. Without his knowledge, he finds his hands have moved to cradle Louis’ hips, and in some strange moment of bravery, he lets them slide higher until the warm skin of his torso bleeds through his tank under his touch.

“Say something,” Louis pleads, voice nothing but a pained whisper coming from a pair of thin, pink lips Harry can’t look away from.

His throat is sticky with unshed tears, his eyes still shining from the ones that came. He doesn’t know what to say, knows he can’t say the only words that would be truthful. So he does the only other thing that might convey the feelings he’s too afraid to admit to. He kisses him.

Louis’ mouth opens under Harry’s own the moment they touch, a soft gasp born of surprise dancing on Harry’s lips. He sees Louis’ bright eyes close in the split-second before they meet, and he closes his own, wetness coating his lashes. Louis’ fingers tangle in Harry’s curls, pulling at them, perhaps unconsciously, and summoning a quiet moan from Harry’s throat. Louis responds to his sounds like he’s moving to music, pulling himself up onto his toes, pressing his chest against Harry’s, taking Harry’s bottom lip gently between his teeth.

Harry snakes his arms around Louis’ waist, his slender frame fitting so perfectly in the space between. He wants to pick him up, to have Louis wrap his legs around his waist, to carry his weight and kiss him at every new angle, Louis leaning down for him, his fingers snagging on unruly curls. But before he can make that fantasy a reality, Louis’ lips leave his abruptly as he tears himself away. He stays close, their arms still around the other, and the separation is only sobering for a moment, until the desire racing through Harry’s veins surges again, need and want crashing like a wave in the center of his chest, where Louis’ hand has dropped.

They gaze at one another, the silence only broken by their unsteady breathing. When the quiet gets too heavy to carry, Louis says, still half-breathless, “Why’d you push me away?”

Harry almost shrugs, shakes his head unknowingly. But he does know. “I thought...” He begins again, measuring his words carefully. “I didn’t know if it was real.”

Louis blinks, his brow furrowing in an adorable show of confusion. “Of course it’s real, Harry.” He says it like there should never have been any doubt.

It’s a little frustrating, but Harry can’t help the smile that accompanies his teasing words. “You weren’t exactly communicative.” His voice is breathy with a hint of laughter beneath the surface. “Barely strung together a single coherent sentence before you got handsy.”

A beautiful, high sound bursts from Louis’ throat, his eyes crinkling as he giggles brightly. Rather than ever explain himself, he rises up on his toes again and presses a hard, messy kiss to Harry’s mouth, sliding his tongue over the seam of bitten-red lips before meeting Harry’s own. They kiss until their smiles make kissing impossible, and when they can’t, they rest their foreheads upon the other’s and breathe together in peaceful stillness.

A shiver runs up Louis’ spine, and Harry feels it roll beneath his hands. Louis’ eyes grow darker, black pushing out blue until Harry can see his own reflection. Harry’s hands are sweating, and his lungs feel weak, and his voice is wobbly when he says as strongly as he can muster, “This is real.” It’s a confirmation, not a question.

Louis nods, his nose catching on Harry’s cheek as he presses a kiss to the corner of his mouth. “It’s real,” he whispers. Then he takes a step back, pulling Harry with him, and Harry follows. He’d follow Louis anywhere.

Louis leads the way to his bedroom, and Harry can barely breathe past the wild beating of his heart that comes from knowing exactly what this is. He’s fucking  _ terrified, _ but wonderfully so. He can’t pretend any longer. He can’t pretend Louis doesn’t haunt his dreams, can’t pretend that Louis isn’t all he wants.

Louis turns around slowly, cautiously when they’ve crossed the threshold, eyes searching Harry’s face. Louis still holds his hand, their fingers intertwined. Harry’s eyes wander over Louis, and he can see his chest heaving with breaths that come a little harder than usual.

His gaze is redirected up to Louis’ face when Louis erases the distance between them once more. His mouth isn’t an inch from Harry’s, their eyes going a little crossed. Harry feels Louis’ breath on his lips, can almost taste him again when he says, as gently as the summer breeze, “I need you.”

The words are unbelievable, his every dream coming true, spoken so softly Harry almost thinks he imagines them. He doesn’t question it.

He leans in the rest of the way, closing the gap Louis left between them. The kiss is tender and sweet and intoxicating, Louis tasting of warm sugar and spice. He moves forward, guiding Louis toward the bed until the back of his knees press against his duvet. He follows Louis’ slow descent, holding him, desperate desire outweighing his false confidence.

_ I need you.  _ He’d said it so simply, like it was obvious, a practiced plea.

Harry shakes above Louis, the only thing keeping him from cracking down the middle being the ripples of energy floating up from Louis’ body, electrifying the space between them. The desire radiating from Louis’ skin almost burns Harry when he lies atop him, resting his weight against his chest, letting his lower half drop to move against him. Harry can feel him through his shorts, and a spark lights in his stomach, zips up his spine at the contact.

He’s never so much as kissed a boy, every touch of Louis’ so new and nervy. Harry swallows Louis’ breath and gives back all that he can with his lungs rattling against his ribs. He feels Louis’ thighs slide along his hips before he’s guided, with soft, firm hands to the bed, his hair fanning out around his head as his back connects with the soft surface, Louis crawling over him. His eyes are gleaming, bright blue rimming the blackest of nights.

Harry just wants to kiss him again, to taste him more deeply than he’d dared when he’d slept against Louis’ chest all those nights Louis had held him when dreams turned cold and frightening and Louis’ bed had been the only safe place. But Louis holds himself up, palms bracketing Harry’s head, chest dipping with each strangled breath.

“What do you want?” Louis murmurs, licking his lips, taking Harry’s attention with the slow glide of his tongue.

_ Everything,  _ Harry pleads silently.  _ I want everything with you. _

Instead, his mouth bleeds honesty. “I’ve never done this,” he says, heart beating like a drum.

Louis gazes at him for just a moment before he says softly, “I know.”

“I just,” Harry starts, feeling his cheeks flush with furious embarrassment. “I don’t...I don’t know what I’m doing.”

Louis shifts, and Harry prepares for another kiss, but instead, Louis simply runs his fingers through Harry’s hair. “I’m nervous, too,” he says, his eyes distracted, watching his finger wrap around a loosened curl.

Harry’s mind swims with confusion, disbelief. “Why would you be nervous?” he asks. “I mean, you’re...” Louis’ expression changes, making him look smaller, his light fading almost imperceptibly, and Harry can’t think of a reason not to say it. “You’re perfect.”

Louis’ lips twitch into a humorless smile as he meets his eyes again, “I’m far from perfect, Harry.”

All of this isn’t following the script Harry’s fantasized in his head for so long. He’s always imagined Louis taking him, swiftly, confidently, leading the way. But something in Louis’ eyes tells Harry he has to be brave, has to make sure Louis knows how badly he wants this, wants him. Louis looks as if he could break apart in his arms, and the fragility is dizzying.

Harry raises his hand, cradling Louis’ soft, chiseled cheek with his palm, warmth flowing through his hand and sparking as it flows through him. “You’re perfect to me,” he says, holding Louis’ gaze. And trying to keep the desperation from his voice, “Kiss me.”

Louis does, lowering himself to meet Harry’s lips in a slow kiss, letting his arms relax until they touch, from lips to toes, moving as one in the shadows of the setting sun. Desire and fear and longing and  _ finally _ crash over them in waves of passion, pulled-back tides of stopping to breathe, as the room grows darker around them.

When their lips have reddened, sore from friction, bodies thrumming with a build up of anticipation, Harry can’t wait any longer. He tries to turn away enough to speak, but Louis follows his movement, his mouth never leaving Harry’s. Harry whispers Louis’ name, half to get his attention, half because it’s the first word that lands on his tongue. When Louis opens his eyes, Harry lets the courage that comes with looking into such brilliant blue fuel the words he murmurs against Louis’ lips, still so close. “Can I touch you?”

Louis sighs into his mouth, a breathy “please” sliding down his throat like warm honey. Louis moves against him, his earlier, unhurried undulations turning more desperate as the realness of the situation is felt by them both, Harry’s question a catalyst. Harry turns them over, guiding Louis gently to the duvet, still warm from his own body heat. Louis’ hands leave Harry’s hair for the first time since all of this began, and he reaches between them, pushing at Harry’s shorts. They come off easily, sliding down his legs and onto the floor, leaving him in his briefs. Before Harry can do it himself, Louis’ hands move to his own shorts, and when they dip below his hips, Harry’s brain erupts in flames at the sight of his bare skin.

He’s so accustomed to seeing Louis in tight spandex, tiny, shimmering shorts, but this? It’s too much, his breath catching in his throat at the honest beauty of him. Louis lifts his hips, pushing the material past his ass and down his thighs until Harry helps him remove them altogether, his eyes glued to Louis’ cock, uncovered and leaking onto his stomach. The redness of Louis’ arousal is copied on his cheeks, and Harry can’t do anything but stare.

Louis squirms under his gaze, rosy and embarrassed and gorgeous. “What?” he breathes, moving his arms to, ridiculously enough, cover his belly.

Harry grabs his wrists, holding them just over his head, and leans in to kiss the smile that’s come over Louis’ lips. “You’re so beautiful,” he murmurs, hoping his words will seep into Louis’ mouth, leak into his heart so he’ll know how desperately Harry feels them.

The pink glow of Louis’ cheeks could likely outshine a rose, his white teeth glinting sharply in the lingering light of evening. “Let me go,” he says, but the smirk playing on his lips keeps Harry still, pinning his hands to the bed. Louis breathes out a laugh and surges up, planting a teasing kiss to Harry’s lips. “Let me go,” he says again. “So I can get you naked.”

Harry feels his own lips turn up in a smile, and Louis falls away, struggling under Harry’s hold, putting on a show. Harry does as he asks, loosening his grip, and Louis’ hands are on him in an instant, fingers tickling at his hips, palms sliding up the length of his torso so slowly, Harry aches with it. The warmth of Louis’ hands are the only antidote against the cool air of the room, a shiver running through him when his shirt is pulled over his head. Louis’ tank top is the next piece of clothing to land in a messy heap beside the bed, and then there is nothing between them but the thin barrier of Harry’s briefs.

Louis moves against him, the soft pads of his fingertips dipping beneath his waistband, wildfire spreading with his gentle touch. It’s a silent question, and Harry nods, taking Louis’ bottom lip between his teeth, nipping just hard enough to pull a quiet moan from Louis’ perfect mouth.

His briefs are rolled down his backside, and he only takes a few distracted seconds to rid himself of them completely, lips back on Louis’ the moment they’re gone. Louis breathes heavily against his mouth, ripping away only to suck on Harry’s neck instead, air puffing from his nose, tongue warm and teasing as it soothes any pleasurable pain from his teeth, sharp against his skin.

Harry touches Louis everywhere he can reach, every dip and curve and smooth expanse of his golden skin. Holding himself up on his knees, he smooths his palms over Louis’ chest, lets his fingers find Louis’ nipples, rubbing over them gently. Louis’ breathing changes, soft whimpers escaping his lips, traveling straight to Harry’s cock.

“Harry,” Louis whispers, a breathy plea. Harry never wants anyone else to say his name again. It belongs to Louis now. And it should always be whispered like a prayer.

Harry goes a little dumb at the sound of it, at the slow journey of Louis’ hands, moving so carefully down his body. Louis interrupts his thoughts, his eyes wild and bright in the darkness. “Touch me,” he says, voice cracking. “Please touch me.” His fingers finally reach their destination, curling around his cock, the touch all-consuming. “Need you.”

Another brief, exhilarating jolt of fear, but Harry knows what to say this time. “Tell me what to do,” he murmurs. They gaze at one another in a rare, calm moment in the midst of the storm, Louis’ hand still holding him where he’s hottest. “Show me,” he begs, struggling in vain to keep his lungs working.

Louis tightens his grip, his hand sliding up slowly, smoothly, stealing Harry’s breath. His other hand is on Harry’s hip, holding him still as he trembles. “Lie down,” he says, voice barely more than a whisper against Harry’s lips.

Harry lets himself be led to the softness of the bed, their positions changed again, and allows himself the gift of seeing Louis from this angle, his fringe falling to tickle Harry’s cheek. Louis’ hand never left his heated skin, his rhythm changing every few seconds, keeping Harry guessing, pent up and desperate. He holds himself over Harry’s panting chest, dipping down to kiss him, to take the air from his lungs, as if it could possibly be enough for them both, pulling moans from deep inside him. He smiles when he does, sweet, breathless smiles born of overwhelm, and Harry waits between those moments, eager to kiss his lips when they curl up with happiness.

Louis’ touch is gone, suddenly, moving to Harry’s hand to pull his palm away from Louis’ neck. Their hands move together, slipping between their sweat-sheened bodies, lower to the hottest, brightest part of him. “Touch me how you want me to touch you,” Louis says, the arm holding him up shaking and bending to the elbow as Harry’s fingers wrap carefully around his length. A hot breath fills Harry’s mouth, lips tender, burning where Louis bites.

It’s hard to believe any of this is happening, that Louis’s body is covering his own, pinning him down, bringing to life the dreams Harry’s had of this golden boy since the night he first laid eyes on him, up on a neon-lit stage, a stranger shining like starlight in a dark club. But Louis isn’t a stranger anymore, and Harry has gone from a boy on the cusp of understanding to a man quickly and wholeheartedly falling in love.

They move as one, the moonlight sneaking in through the window casting shadows on their busy hands, spreading out over Louis’ face as his back lands again on the damp, wrinkled duvet covering his bed. A quiet gasp fills the room, seeps into Harry’s heart as he crawls down Louis’ body, lips dotting a path from his collarbones to his nipples, pink and puffy, down his stomach and lower. His mind is swimming with possibilities, ways to make Louis come apart under his fingertips, things he might do to keep those delicious sounds tumbling from Louis’ lips. He doesn’t need to be told what to do anymore.

Louis arches under his touch, the motion throwing Harry a little off balance, but he takes the accompanying moan as an invitation and takes Louis into his mouth. The taste is dizzying, the feel of him, the unbearable novelty of what Harry finds himself doing. He feels so virginal, like he’s on the edge of a cliff, his heart racing just before the jump. He closes his eyes and listens for the sounds he’s imagined for so long, used for his own shameful pleasure when Louis seemed so far out of reach.

He gets lost in the hot silkiness of his flesh, the full, bitter taste of boy, the deep, musky scent that invades his senses each time his nose moves to the crease of his thigh, the hair there dewy with sweat. Louis’ whimpers and lower moans keep him grounded, make him remember what he’s working toward. Louis pulses on his tongue, wet heat filling his mouth, and his voice is breathy, scratchy when he says Harry’s name. “ _ Harry, _ ” he cries again, fingers scratching at Harry’s scalp, “Baby, I’m,  _ ah... _ I'm gonna come.”

Harry knows it’s meant to be a warning, but he doesn’t relent. Some wild, lust-driven part of him refuses to give this up. Not yet. He wants it. He wants all of him, and while a tiny voice reminds him that this is all so new, that maybe he won’t like it, a louder one begs for it. It forces his tongue in what must be a torturous rhythm, judging from Louis’ cries, hollows his cheeks and stops his heavy breathing until Louis finally gives of himself, arousal like poisoned honey dripping down Harry’s throat.

He sputters a bit, can’t really help it with the shock of what he’s just done. His reward, when he finally removes his mouth and crawls over Louis’ lifeless form, is a kiss, molten with sighs. Louis hiccups against his lips, his voice barely a sound. “Fuck,” he breathes. “That was…” he tapers off, foregoing words in favor of another kiss.

“Alright then?” Harry asks, a small, half-satisfied, half-worried smile against Louis’ brighter one.

“Fucking incredible,” Louis says, a tired laugh filling the sentiment. “Don’t know what you’re doing, my  _ ass. _ ”

Harry laughs then, pure, unbridled happiness exploding in his chest. He can’t take his eyes from Louis’ flushed face, but if he could, he’s sure he’d find himself glowing, his cheeks burning. “I, uh...I guess...I’m a fast learner?”

Louis’ eyes close tightly, little crinkles popping up beside them, as he throws his head back and giggles so brightly, Harry’s heart skips a beat at the beauty of him. Before he’s even calmed down, stopped laughing and let Harry look at him some more, he’s pushing at Harry’s shoulders, crawling over him, eyes like black diamonds as he gazes down at him. “I believe it’s your turn,” Louis says. As Harry watches Louis’ breathing return to a semi-normal pace, catalogues his every expression, he discovers that he doesn’t look so breakable anymore. His heart beats hard in his chest when Louis looks at him with a sharpness in his eyes, always gentle, but now more focused.

Louis kisses him, only once more before his lips and teeth and tongue find his neck instead, his chest, breaths coming faster and more shallow as the minutes pass, the dip in the center of his abdomen. His nose drags along the damp crease of Harry’s thigh, warmth and unfamiliarity sending shivers up his spine, his back arching without his permission. Because Harry is, apparently, a masochist, he says, on a shaky inhale, “You don’t have to.” Louis glances up at him, their eyes meeting across the small distance Louis’ wandering mouth has created. “I wanted to. That’s all I mean. You don’t have to just because I did.”

Louis lips turn lopsided, a small grin playing just above Harry’s cock. “Thank you for attempting to protect my virtue, but I’ve been fucking dreaming of this, so if I can just get on with it?”

Harry lets his head fall back to the bed with a sigh of faux exasperation, smile so wide it almost hurts. His fingers lace in Louis’ dampened hair as warm, soft lips wrap around him. Wet heat drowns out everything else, every worry of insecurity, every fear of not being enough, every heartbreaking thought that has ever told him Louis could never love him back.

He lets his pleasure be known, loudly and without shame. And Louis thrives on it, kissing and sucking and licking and  _ choking, _ and Harry knows he isn’t the only one who’s gotten lost in this. His mind is a constant stream of curses and thoughts of  _ LouisLouisLouis, _ half of them reaching his tongue to tumble out into the stillness surrounding their chaos.

Louis moans around him, and Harry’s toes curl where his feet have moved to Louis’ back, pulling him closer, his face nearly buried in Harry’s heat. Harry’s hands leave Louis’ hair and find his own, pulling just enough to send sparks of pleasurable pain down his neck and toward Louis’ mouth.

He tries to tell Louis he’s close, that nothing could really stop him from coming now. He’s not sure how coherent his warning is, the words falling from his wide-open lips in whimpers and louder groans, but Louis seems to understand, doubling his efforts. And Harry comes, the first of it spilling in the tight heat of Louis’ mouth.

His entire being feels afire, Louis holding him down, firm hands against his hips, as he writhes atop the spoiled duvet. The noises leaving his lips are animalistic. The moment he’s finished and Louis has caught all of him on his tongue, his chin, his cheeks, he crawls up Harry’s body, stopping halfway to smudge his face against Harry’s stomach.

Harry giggles, so happy and sated and definitely, horribly, heartwrenchingly in love. “Dirty boy,” he murmurs, tasting himself, a rich, salty sweetness, on Louis’ tongue when he’s traveled the rest of the way to kiss him deeply.

“It’s  _ your _ come,” Louis retorts, smiling, his teeth against Harry’s swollen lips. “Shouldn’t have come so much if you didn’t want it everywhere.”

“Shut up,” Harry says, cheeks burning with happy embarrassment.

They kiss for minutes that feel both like mere seconds and long, unhurried hours before Louis relaxes against him, exactly half of him still covering Harry’s pliant body. His slender fingers move to draw random patterns on Harry’s flushed chest, his breath slowly evening out against his shoulder, their feet tangled at the end of the bed.

“I’ve wanted to do that for so long,” Harry says, after finally summoning the courage and the lung capacity.

He feels Louis’ long lashes flutter against his skin. “Me too, Haz,” he says, so softly, so quietly Harry almost misses it as he fights against sleep, the lingering warmth of lovemaking and the ever-present heat of Louis’ body still so close lulling him into dreams. “Sleep now,” Louis whispers, seemingly already halfway there himself.

And Harry does. He falls asleep, skin a drying mess, sticky with sweat and come, still cooling in the dull light of Louis’ bedroom, Louis pressed against him, a solid, comforting weight, as he murmurs in his sleep. But not before he sends up one last prayer, that he’ll find the courage needed for honesty, for transparency. He practices those three little words in his head, over and over until they sound like nonsense, and he hopes desperately that Louis is holding back those same words, a confession like sugar-laced poison burning on the tip of his tongue.

For now, Louis says Harry’s name while he dreams, sweetly, as if by a lover asking for another kiss. And nothing has ever sounded more beautiful.

~~~

It isn’t the first time Harry’s ever woken to the feeling of Louis wrapped around him. But it’s never felt like it does now, in the early morning light, room cool but for the space between them, warmth radiating from their embrace. Louis’ soft breathing moves Harry’s hair, his arm resting against Harry’s chest, fingers just barely touching him where they’d danced the night before.

Harry smiles, slow and lazy and so fucking happy. As Louis sleeps peacefully behind him, he lets himself imagine what it’ll be like when he wakes. He’ll turn over, and Louis will kiss him, his lips soft and tasting of sleep. His eyes will shine in the sun peeking in through the window, casting light on the proof of last night. They’ll shower, he hopes together, and Louis will touch him, gentle hands on slick skin, smiles and quiet laughter as the world comes back to life in the golden hour. They’ll have breakfast, and Louis will look at him over his toast in that way that makes Harry’s heart beat too quickly.

Louis is supposed to work tonight. Harry wonders if he’ll stay home instead, if he’ll perform for a more private audience tonight. The thought sends a shiver of elicit joy up his spine, and he presses himself closer to Louis’ warmth, the solid weight of him against his back comforting and so real.

Louis stirs behind him, inhaling deeply through his nose, and Harry can’t wait any longer. He turns, Louis’ arm slipping down to his waist as he moves. As he settles, Louis’ eyes open, a light, piercing blue, the morning sky.

Louis closes his eyes again, the sun too bright, and hums sleepily, a noncommittal sound that brings a heaviness to Harry’s throat, a stinging sensation behind his eyes.

“Good morning,” Harry whispers, tucking a stray piece of fringe behind Louis’ ear, trying in vain to keep the tears at bay.

Louis must hear the struggle in his voice. His eyes open, a bit wider than before, and he grasps Harry’s hand before it leaves his face. His brows are furrowed, from fighting the intrusive morning light or from concern, Harry doesn’t know. “Morning, baby,” he says, his voice as soft as velvet, smooth but a little raspy.

And that’s all it takes for Harry to break. A tear slips down his cheek, landing silently on his pillow before Louis can react. His thumb swipes across Harry’s cheek a moment later, still damp.

“What is it?” he asks, gently, cautiously, worry playing on his fine features.

Harry exhales shakily and moves closer, cuddling against Louis’ chest, Louis’ arms moving to keep him there. “M’sorry,” he mumbles, his words pressed to Louis’ sleep-warm skin. “Just can’t believe...I’ve wanted this for so long. It’s hard to believe it’s real.” He breathes Louis in, his scent stronger than usual after the events of last night. It’s heavenly. And Harry did that. Harry made him smell like this.

A hand leaves Harry’s back, cool air replacing Louis’ touch, to settle in his hair, smoothing it away from his face hiding in the dip of Louis’ collarbone. “Look at me,” Louis says, desperate but quiet. After a moment, “Hazza, baby. Look at me.”

Harry swipes his face across Louis’ neck, depositing his tears, before he moves away just enough to look up into Louis’ eyes. A smile finds its way to Louis’ lips.

“What?” Harry asks, a whisper.

“When you cry, your eyes are like emeralds,” he says, his own sapphires shimmering back. “Love,” he continues, pausing to coax a loose curl from Harry’s forehead. “This is real. I’m real. And I’m not going anywhere.”

One last heavy breath leaves Harry’s lungs before he surges forward and takes the first morning kiss he’s prayed for for so long, imagined only minutes ago while Louis still slept against him. Louis blooms under him, breath warm on his lips, eyes fluttering closed. They kiss until breathing becomes a challenge, and when their lips are red and their eyes are locked in peaceful stillness, Louis says, “I’m scared, too, y’know.”

Harry’s brow furrows in confusion. “I’m not scary, Lou.”

A smile curls Louis’ lips. “I’m not scared of  _ you _ . I just…” He trails off, but Harry only barely opens his mouth to respond before Louis finds the words. “I was scared, too, that it wasn’t real.” There’s a nervy quality to his voice, his eyes suddenly so vulnerable. “It’s not something...people like me can afford to hope for.”

“People like you?”

Louis blushes, pink spreading high on his cheeks. “People who do what I do. I mean, I love it. I don’t mean... _ fuck, _ ” he closes his eyes tightly. “I’m doing a shit job of explaining.”

Harry offers him what he hopes is a comforting smile. “It’s okay,” he says, waiting.

Louis exhales. “There’s so much about my job that I love. But sometimes it’s hard to wrap my mind around the fact that, really, what I do for a living is  _ pretending. _ And meeting you...that was scary. I’ve been terrified, not of you but...you’re the realest thing I’ve ever felt, Harry. And I think letting you into my life just made me realize that maybe I’m not so great at being real. Maybe I’m better at pretending. Maybe I’m better as a mirage.”

Harry’s mind swims with Louis’ confessions, Louis laid bare under him, both emotionally and physically. “You feel real to me,” he says. It’s not enough, but he can’t think past the hurt that settled in his heart at hearing those words. “You deserve every beautiful thing.”

Louis’ eyes shine, now even in the shadow of the sun, as they fill with tears. Harry wipes them away before they fall past his cheekbones. Looking turns to kissing. Kissing turns to something more. And both of their stomachs are grumbling for food, limbs tired and achy, lips swollen and sticky, before they leave the bed for the shower Harry hoped for when he woke to Louis’ breath in his ear.

The day seems shorter than most, the hours passing more determinedly, Harry discovers, with Louis in his arms. No single moment is enough, each one so light but still heavy with the craving of another. It’s a miracle they’ve eaten at all since they woke and carried one another out of bed, Louis’ lips never leaving his own for long. Even less time without counting the breaks Louis took just to reposition himself, bringing his lips instead to Harry’s neck or collarbones or chest, other places. Every room in Louis’ tiny apartment is shimmering now, sex and longing and secret love left everywhere they wandered, hand-in-hand, lips-on-lips.

They lounge on the couch when the gray light of dusk begins to creep into the living room, their spoiled cat flicking her tail about distractedly. And Harry is happy. Or, well. He  _ was. _ Until he heard the words that just left Louis’ lips, his eyes wide and innocent.

“What?” Harry asks on a whisper, every fear resurrected in this horrible, petrifying moment. He feels his body tense, his heart hammering in his chest.

Louis repeats himself, and Harry knows he’s heard him correctly this time. “I think you should try to talk to your parents.”

“Why?” Harry pushes the question out. He could be exaggerating this, putting some kind of meaning on it that Louis doesn’t intend. But there’s a look in Louis’ eyes that suggests he knows exactly what he’s saying.

“I just think it’s time,” Louis says. His tone is soft, but Harry feels himself spiraling. “Don’t you want to see them?”

“No,” Harry hears himself say, a little forcefully. “Why would I want that?”

“They’re your family, Harry.”

Fear building up like a wall between them, hot tears in his eyes, Harry forces himself up off the couch and onto his feet. “You don’t have to do this,” he says, the air rushing out of his lungs, half-plea, half-accusation.

Louis squirms under his gaze, but before he can wriggle his way out of it, Harry turns, sights set on the kitchen, only pausing for a moment to grab his bag that never made it to the bedroom. Half of his belongings thrown over his shoulder, he walks with purpose to the kitchen table, where’d they’d eaten breakfast and, now, where Harry’s shoes lie waiting.

He vaguely hears Louis’ approach as he struggles to get his heels inside his shoes, embarrassment red hot on his face, panic and sadness and humiliation crashing in waves.

Louis might say his name. He can’t be sure. The staticky white noise in his brain makes it impossible to hear anything. All he knows is he has to get out of here before Louis makes the decision for him.

This is Louis realizing he’s made a mistake, realizing he doesn’t want this. The suggestion he made was an attempt to convince Harry he doesn’t want it either, an attempt to let him down gently, to make him think it’s his choice to leave.

So Harry takes the hint and tries to keep the tears out of his voice when he opens the door and steps out into the heat of another summer day in this town he’d finally begun to think of as home. “Goodbye, Louis,” he says, sounding more wobbly and heartbroken than he wished his last words to be. He vaguely hears Louis shout something, but the door is shut firmly between them before he can turn around, the sound of it slamming a finality.

His drive is long and aimless, speeding on tired asphalt with nowhere to go, nowhere to belong. He doesn’t know what he’s heading toward, and he doesn’t care. He can’t go home. He isn’t ready to see his family, isn’t sure they would even want that. He’s thought enough about it during his time away, and that realization no longer results in a piercing ache, but rather a dull pain that sits, heavy and solid, on his chest.

He can’t go back to Louis. It’s all a whirlwind, what just unfolded between them, the chaotic timeline of the last twenty-four hours. And Harry can’t really see it clearly, every attempt foiled by his own panic, the tears that threaten to fall and obstruct his vision as he drives down a darkened road he doesn’t recognize.

Harry had confessed to his fears, Louis seemingly sharing them. Perhaps that was the truth, and why Harry now finds himself running again, miles multiplying between them, fire and water. He was scared. But a persistent voice in his head argues. Stronger than his fear, born of insecurity and what has, from the very beginning, felt like falling in love, was the sense of safety he felt any time Louis was near.

The golden shimmer of his skin on stage, the light in his eyes, made Harry feel valid, like the club he stumbled into on the worst night of his life was a hidden church, his longing a prayer, and when he was finally asked to touch, a holy communion. The soft give of Louis’ lips, the space between them to accept Harry’s tongue, made him feel like he finally belonged somewhere, in Louis’ arms, in his bed, so far from home, but slowly, finally finding a new one. The curl of his smile brought Harry joy when he thought he’d never find a reason to feel whole again.

He doesn’t make it far before his heart abruptly cracks down the middle, no warning but for the first tinkling notes of a song playing quietly through his speakers, one that Louis had once claimed to love, rolling the windows down on one of their no-destination drives, singing at the top of his lungs, hair wild from the wind. He pulls off the road, dizzy, watching from outside himself as his heart turns kaleidoscopic, broken, the light inside it growing dimmer every mile further from Louis.

There is nothing but empty fields as far as he can see, but he managed, in his moment of heartbreak, to pull off onto a dirt path, surrounded by a tall spread of wildflowers and at least partially lit by two flickering lights, hung high on dark, metal poles too similar to, but colder than the one Louis had made love to the night Harry found him.

He drives on slowly, letting the meadow swallow him for some false sense of security in this middle-of-nowhere town, letting sleep take him before he can feel any more fear, any more pain.

He dreams of what he had the night before, Louis falling asleep on his chest and moving to hold him as the night grew colder. It’s all the same. And it makes sense, why his mind wouldn’t change anything, wouldn’t shift and reform the memories for dreams. It was perfect, just as it had been, illuminated by moonlight instead of yellow lamps in an overgrown field.

It was perfect, in every way but one. In his dreams, he doesn’t leave.

~~~

Harry wakes to sunlight, pouring brightly and unobstructed into his car, no curtains this morning to shield his eyes, no tousled head of hair between him and the intrusion of day. The night had gotten cold, frigid, unmoving air seeping in to evoke shivers. He groans, tired and irritated and achy from sleeping in a terribly awkward position, and pulls the hood of his sweatshirt over his eyes.

He feigns sleep. But this morning, he does it not to pray silently that the man beside him will look at him and think amorous thoughts while he believes Harry to be still sleeping soundly, but to delay reality for as long as he can.

His mind whirred and his thoughts from last night came back in earnest the moment he opened his eyes and sleep left him. There is no escape. He sits, still and quiet but for the deafening roar of his heartbreak, as the sun finishes its climb into the morning sky, his attention only brought away from the continuous waves of humiliation and despair, of confused self-hatred, by the occasional flight of a songbird past his window.

Eventually, he forces himself upright and turns the key in the ignition. He left half of his belongings with Louis in his desperate flee. Even with it all, he doesn’t have much. And he left his bear, his grandmother’s quilt, his favorite book. He has to go back.

He tries to think, as he drives, of a way to make this painless. He comes up empty. When his gas tank indicates the same, he pulls into the next fuel station. And as the hours pass by, he finds himself stopping for just about everything he can think of. He feels cowardice sitting on his chest like a lead weight, but he can’t remove it, can’t throw it off. He’s wasted the whole day by the time he’s out of possibilities for avoidance, and with the sun setting again, the only constant thing, he sets his wheels in the direction of  _ Honey, _ and drives.

The neon burns dimmer than before. Or at least it seems that way. Harry sits in the parking lot for too long, the thought of Louis so close even after all this suddenly too much to comprehend. Harry left, and it seems strange, in the dim light of the moon and the club’s glow, that now he’s back. And for a brief moment, it seems nothing has really changed. But everything has.

He makes his way out of the car and up the creaking stairs that lead to Louis’ apartment, not wanting to face those he selfishly called friends if he doesn’t absolutely have to. Shame burns red on his face, even where he’s hidden. They can’t see him. No one knows he’s here. But surely, Louis would have told them he was gone. The thought of what they must feel toward him now drops like poison in his gut.

He knocks as steadily as he can manage, hands shaking. The door remains closed, only darkness behind the closed shades on the window beside it. He tries the handle, out of sheer hope, but it doesn’t budge. It’s locked, and Louis either isn’t home or he isn’t going to answer.

Left with only one remaining option, Harry follows the handrail down the stairs and tries to control the tears stinging his eyes as the first drops of rain fall from the sky, burning his cheeks as they land. It’s poetic, really. The sky looks an awful lot like his heart, the sound of thunder growing closer too similar in it’s cracking quality to that of the continuous breaking of it.

He pushes aside the fear and finds himself, after a short walk, intruding on a hushed conversation between Steve and Bebe, the two of them standing under the covered doorway. Steve’s expression is cooler than Harry’s ever seen it before, and before Harry can summon the courage to demand entry, he says, in a calm, firm voice, “What are you doing here?”

Bebe is quiet beside him, beautiful and mysterious and captivating as always, but now, with a hint of worry and maybe sympathy settling on her face. Her lips are painted red, her eyes darker than the sky that’s turned black.

Harry gazes at them both, desperate sorrow pooling in his throat, making it impossible to speak. He wants to fall, just let himself break down right here. He’s exhausted and confused and seriously wondering if his heart will ever stop feeling so bruised.

“Please let me in,” he finally says, voice nothing but a whispered scrape.

Bebe takes in an audible breath and a moment later says, “I don’t think that’s a good idea, love.”

Harry’s eyes shift from the stern-faced, but secretly soft and kind Steve to the temptress he’s come to love. Her brow furrowed, lips pulled into an uncomfortable half-smile, she looks truly sorry. The emotion hidden behind her dark eyes tugs at Harry’s first impression of her. She knows things. She sees things and notices people and holds secrets. What does she know now?

Before the question can take shape on his tongue, a sudden commotion turns both their heads, Harry’s eyes straight forward to find Niall bursting through the door. “Oh,” he gasps, clearly startled. “I, uh…” he looks around the group, first at Bebe, whom his gaze found immediately, then Harry, with obvious confusion, then Steve, his expression turning into a question. “What’s going on?” he asks, stepping out of the door’s way altogether and letting it shut behind him, actively involving himself in whatever situation he just discovered.

The silence is deafening, four sets of eyes wandering over one another. Then, apparently without the patience needed for this interruption to whatever plan he’d been enacting, Niall reaches across their circle and grabs Harry’s arm. “Would you get inside already?” he says, exasperated, pulling the door open and pushing Harry through the threshold and into the heat and noise of the club.

Afraid to stick around and lose his chance, Harry follows Niall’s orders, but not before he sees him leading Bebe away. It’s a curiosity, a question for another time.

Breathing as calmly as the thick air allows, he heads straight for the bar. Niall is outside, but occupied stools block his view of the mirror behind the bar. Zayn is their temporary entertainer, pouring shots and dancing casually to the beat of the song pounding throughout the room. Harry braves a glance toward the stage, knowing, by the music, who he’ll find. Liam’s managed to remove all but a silver thong by now, his muscles bunched as he holds himself up on the pole.

Harry looks away, his gaze now, in this strange, horrible reason for being here, feeling predatory. When he returns his attention to the bar, Zayn is staring at him.

By sheer iron will, Harry walks toward him, and after finishing up with a distracted patron, Zayn meets him at the side of the bar, behind the row of heads turned toward the stage in the other direction.

“There’s only one reason why you should be here right now,” Zayn says, his voice more menacing than Harry’s ever heard it. There’s no hint of his usual charm. “You better explain yourself. I have no problem throwing your ass out the door otherwise.”

The severity of his sharp features and his drowned-out threat leave Harry taking an unconscious step back, but when he’s gotten past the initial fear of this altercation, evidently one in a long journey to Louis, he moves closer. Zayn leans forward, and Harry’s lips graze his ear, pierced all the way up. “I have to see him,” he hears himself say.

Perhaps it happens in that moment. Maybe he knew it all along. The very idea that he came back here for nothing more than his things is so ridiculous now, sounds so transparent in his mind, that he sways in place, the shock of it hitting him like a slap to the face.

He pleads again, louder this time to make up for the distance Harry put between them as he struggled to remain upright. “I need to see him, Zayn. Please.”

“Why should I help you?” Zayn asks. The words sound like a challenge, but with the way Zayn is looking at him, Harry can’t help but feel gratitude for him. It’s clear in the amber light of his eyes, much like it was in the set of Bebe’s stained lips, that under the fierce protection, he truly hopes Harry can give him the answer he needs.

Harry inhales, shaky on his feet, but a new resolve spreading through him like wildfire. “Because I’ve made the worst mistake of my life. And I’ve come back to fix it. I have to tell him. Even if he doesn’t...even if he asks me to leave for good.” He exhales. Please. I have to tell him.”

Zayn eyes him suspiciously, but one corner of his lips twitches just slightly, like he already knows the answer to his next question. “Tell him what?”

Harry moves closer, and without much thought at all, says, “I love him.” The second the words leave his mouth, his lips curl into a frantic, giddy smile. He’s never said it out loud, not to another person. He’s never admitted this single, all-consuming truth to anyone, never let the dread of losing Louis, the anxiety of not being enough fall away for long enough for it to be real. Louis had confessed his own fear, and Harry hadn’t the courage to examine his own honesty.  _ Maybe I’m better at pretending, _ he’d said.  _ Maybe I’m better as a mirage. _

And Harry, selfishly,  _ stupidly, _ had let him believe it. He let Louis believe he was anything less than perfectly, beautifully real. He let his own insecurities, his own fear of abandonment, his own sure knowledge that Louis couldn’t possibly love someone so broken validate every horrible, incorrect thought Louis has ever had of himself.

The awful weight of this realization is heavy, but his cheeks ache from the smile still stretching across his face, the joy radiating through his every cell impossible to contain. “ _ Fuck, _ ” he says, laughter bubbling out of his mouth and into the space between them. “I love him!”

Zayn’s crooked smile grows wider, and he laughs, too, eventually. Harry takes the last step needed to pull Zayn into a tight embrace, their lower halves separated by the bar pressing into their stomachs. Nervous laughter spills from deep inside him, his body shivering with chaotic joy, mind racing as he pictures Louis’ face, wonders, ridiculously, if Louis wore his favorite gold shorts tonight, tries to imagine how he’ll react.

He lets Zayn go and steps back, his cheeks surely as bright as the pink neon over the back of the bar. Zayn’s smile softens, and he says, “Go get him,” and Harry does.

He walks with purpose, breaking into a jog, to the door leading backstage, behind which Louis’ dressing room waits, hopefully with Louis inside, whole enough to forgive.

He pushes past the door and then another, but no shining blue eyes meet him, only white lights of the vanity against the far wall. His head spins, and he takes a brief moment to steady himself before he runs toward the stage, just in time to catch the sight of a golden boy taking a deep breath, his chest moving in the dim light between folded velvet curtains, and walking out on stage, poised to steal hearts.

Harry curses under his breath and rushes back the way he came, into the crowded audience. He moves as gracefully, as inconspicuously as he can through the crowd until he’s center stage, one downward glance away from Louis’ attention.  _ Look at me _ , he pleads, a silent echo of Louis’ words the morning they woke together, before Louis had kissed him.

Louis’ hooded gaze lands on him, after a long, aching, empty moment, his eyes widening just enough to betray his shock before they grow dark once more. Harry hopes it’s for the sake of performance. For more than a few beats of a song Harry can’t hear, Louis averts his gaze, and fear finds its way back into Harry’s heart. But then Louis walks calmly to the edge of the stage, as if in an act of practiced seduction, and before Harry can question the image unfolding before him, Louis jumps down to the ground, standing inches away.

Harry can vaguely sense their surroundings, hot, loud music still playing for a dancer who has abandoned it, gasps heavy with confusion and excitement coming from the men scattered around them. But none of it matters when Louis reaches out and touches his cheek, moving closer, and then, on a whisper only audible with Louis’ lips so close to his ear, pleads with clear, serious honesty, vulnerability bleeding from his voice, “Tell me it’s real.”

“It’s real,” Harry says, voice cracking. “I’m sorry, Louis. I’m so sorry.”

Tears well in his eyes, but any other words he might have let tumble from his mouth in messy apology are lost when Louis deliberately, but too gently for this dark, lustful atmosphere, finds Harry’s lips with his own, kissing him in front of a hundred people just as he did when they were alone.

Louis, always a professional, pulls away much too soon, but his lips grow thinner in a smile that says he knows exactly why Harry came back. And that he might just feel the same way.

Louis finds his way back onstage, leaving Harry wet-eyed and trembling at the front of the amused crowd to finish his performance, his gaze, under long, painted lashes, on Harry’s until the moment he disappears again behind dark curtains.

The music changes, and Harry runs. He moves as quickly as his legs will take him, and this time, when he opens the door, Louis is on the other side of it.

Without the bright stage lights illuminating his face and the glitter painted onto his skin, without the persona, he looks smaller. He always does. He looks fragile, and Harry knows, in the moment that Louis’ face crumples and a tear slips down his cheek, that he has to be strong enough for both of them right now. He steps forward slowly, reaching out to touch, as Louis had done moments ago, tenderly.

“Lou,” he murmurs, thumbing over his cheekbone, wiping away the single tear that fell. His confession gets stuck in his throat, the fantasy  _ finally _ so real, so imminent. Louis says Harry’s name, a single, shaky breath. And then, Harry says the words he came here to say. “I love you.”

The air goes still and silent, Louis blinking, lips barely parted. And then, with a tiny explosion of nervous, obliterating happiness, Louis laughs and crashes into Harry. He kisses him deeply, hands sliding into his hair, chest pressed against Harry’s as he stands on his toes, making himself taller, moving so close they almost occupy the same space. His breath is warm, his lips wet, his thighs firm as he jumps into Harry’s arms, nothing, in this moment, possibly enough for the feeling passing between them.

He breaks away eventually, panting against Harry’s cheek. They gaze at one another, and Harry feels weak with it, but he holds Louis tightly, making a vow in that very moment to never let him go again. And then Louis parts his lips once more, not to kiss, but to say the words that Harry knows, somewhere inside the mix of total, unbridled happiness and breathless overwhelm, he’ll hear for the rest of his life. “I love you, too.”

His eyes gleam when he says it, blue waves finally breaking on the shore. Harry lets him down, and they hold each other steady, hearts beating wildly, cheeks aching and tear-streaked. “I’m sorry I left,” Harry says.

Before he can continue, Louis stops him with a hand on his chest and a sober gaze. “I’m sorry I let you.”

After one last kiss, for now, Louis pulls him out into the club, past a smirking Zayn and a baffled Liam who missed the conundrum of Harry’s arrival, past the peculiar sight of Niall and Bebe standing a promising two inches apart in a dimly lit corner, past Steve still guarding the door with a look of relief playing on his usually stony features, and into his apartment overlooking the blessed road that took Harry here when he’d never felt more lost.

Harry follows Louis into the bedroom where they’d made love, an illicit thrill running through him at the sudden realization that they’ll have that again, that they can call it that, that he can tell Louis he loves him all the way through it. His back finds the cool, wrinkled duvet, and his lips find Louis’ everything.

They’ll help each other heal. They’ll love, and Louis will believe, and Harry will stay. And it won’t always be easy. But it’ll be worth it. Louis will always be worth it.

And when the cool air of morning still too early to be found by the light of the sun has dried their skin and calmed their breathing, they sleep. And Harry knows, for the first time in a very long time, that he’ll be okay.

He’s finally home.

**Author's Note:**

> This is where we part, for now! I hope that you enjoyed this story!
> 
> Please be so kind as to leave kudos or a comment if you liked this fic or any of the others in this wonderful collection.
> 
> And lastly, I always welcome feedback and I love to make new friends in this fandom we're all stuck in, so please come chat with me on [Tumblr](http://larryandgaystuff.tumblr.com)! And if you're feeling especially nice, please share my post for this fic, which can be found [here](http://larryandgaystuff.tumblr.com/post/173483538974/run-with-your-mind-by-larryandgaystuff-22k)!
> 
> Thanks again for reading, and remember to treat people with kindness. :)


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